


Flay The Butterfly

by Sparticustodian



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Will Add Pairings As They Appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9979610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparticustodian/pseuds/Sparticustodian
Summary: Ned Stark must do his duty to his King, but remembering what happened the last time a Lord Stark went to King's Landing, he must first ensure that the North is prepared. But how do you prepare for legends? For dead myths and dead men?





	1. A Change Made (Eddard & Arya Stark)

 

 

**Chapter 1**

 

**Eddard Stark**

 

All things considered, it would have been more fortuitous if Winter was coming, and not the King.

 

Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, let out a small blow of frustration as he absentmindedly reached for his cup of ale – heavily weakened with water in order to better maintain his wits – and stared at the three pieces of parchment that took center place on his desk, a great and ornate thing of solid oak with ironwood trim and a surface of a rich, silver-dyed leather; a relic of his father's love of grand gestures. Now it was Ned's – as were, he thought sourly, the political maneuverings that threatened to engulf him, like a winter's storm that came without warning after a false spring.

 

Putting down his cup he picked up the first letter once more. He scanned the scrawl, though in truth by now he had the entire letter known by heart. His wife's sister had clearly written in haste, telling a woeful tale of her husband's poisoning and her subsequent flight from the royal capital of King's Landing. She wrote now from the safety of her deceased husband's holdfast, The Eyrie, and vowed that neither she nor her son would leave for as long as danger threatened her precious Sweet Robin. For all her waxing, her letter was short on any sort of actual explanation, save her claim that the Queen's family were behind the plot, no doubt seeking to remove her husband from his position of prominence as the Hand of the King, so to more firmly entrap the King with men loyal to the Lannisters themselves.

 

He frowned at that, ignoring the crinkle of parchment as his hands tightened around its edges. He had no love for the Lannisters – Lord Tywin, the familial patriarch, father of the Queen Consort, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands – was ruthless and power hungry, but it eluded him why the Lannisters would risk all to kill the man who had been a father both to King Robert and himself – the man who had raised them both as fosters in the Vale, ridden with them to war against the Mad King Aerys when said king had all but demanded both his and Robert's heads... the risk did not seem worth the reward. Jon Arryn was old, and Tywin Lannister's grandson would one day sit upon the Iron Throne, with no need for sinister action.

 

He shook his head, placing the letter down once more. He knew he had been remiss to tarry on this issue – the grief he felt at the death of Lord Arryn had threatened his wits, and mayhap even now he was unable to see clearly. It had been many years since he had seen his good-sister Lysa – surely she would not name the Lannisters without any sort of rightful suspicion... and just as reasonably, she would be reluctant to go into any further specifics in a letter that was always in some danger of interception. He would take her at her word for now – which brought his attentions to the second letter.

 

The King was coming to Winterfell. According to the letter sent from the Red Keep, the King and his retinue had left almost a fortnight ago. Such a procession though would take time, both because of the many leagues between King's Landing and Winterfell, and also because protocol would demand that every holdfast and keep, every chartered town and lordly castle offer some show of ceremony and celebration. Especially as the King traveled with the entire royal family, his Lannister queen – Queen Cersei – as well as their three children, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, who were of an age between Ned's own children. As well as who could begin to fathom how many attendants and footmen and ladies as southerners were wont to take. Even with only the minimum of necessary stops, such a group would be laden down by the wheel houses and baggage train. No, they would not reach the North quickly, even if the Kingsroad was well maintained and the weather clear.

 

Which brought him to the most pressing of the three issues, as there was more than enough time that he could not delay a response to the third letter.

 

Unlike his good-sister's hurried, messy scrawl or the ostentatious penmanship of the anonymous palatial scribe, the letter in front of him was written in a tidy, precise, and tiny hand, almost so small as to be uncomfortable to read. Precise, tidy, and practical – three of the more favorable attributes that could also be held to the man who had penned it – Lord Roose Bolton, one of Ned's principal bannermen and one whose family had a long and at times a violent history with the Starks of Winterfell.

 

Though this – well if it was not a first, it was something very close to it.

 

... _has returned after spending four years in the softness of The Reach. It is my intent therefore to arrange a quick tour of mine own bannermen and, if you find it pleasurable to your circumstances, our liege lord. I believe your daughter Sansa is of an appropriate age..._

 

He scoffed at that. It was not for Sansa that Lord Bolton suggested sending his heir and only daughter, Dachara, for a sojourn to Winterfell.

 

His lady wife had been less than amused when Ned had read out the contents of the letter to her, shortly after it had come on the morning's raven.

 

“This is not the first time Lord Bolton has hinted to you in letters along these lines, and I... he is not a kind man.”

 

Ned had given a grim bark of a laugh at that. “Aye, I've heard him named many things over the years, though few would ever call him kind. He is however one of my most powerful bannermen, and for his private thoughts and... peculiarities... he has never given me public offense. Nothing that would justify dismissing the matter out of hand.”

 

He had given his wife a private smile, “And any way, it is not his own self that he would cleave to Robb.”

 

Catelyn Stark had snorted, amusement clear for a moment in her eyes despite the serious nature of the situation. “No, I shouldn't think so! And I would pray that she is touched more by the Maiden and the Mother than her father is likely to be! But... Robb is still so _young_. Surely there is still time before we need to think about such things. And surely, there must be so many other girls who could be considered. Ones with less history. It is not something to jump into.”

 

“Hastily, no. But, there are not as many as you may wish, Cat.” Ned had replied tiredly. “Robb must marry in the North – for all that you have been a blessing unto me, the Starks cannot be more of the south than of the north. Of northern lords with an appropriate daughter, mayhap there are a half dozen – a dozen at most. Even if we were to include the smaller houses, less than a score – and Robb is almost five-and-ten, near a man grown. We have put this off for too long, you must admit I have the right of it.”

 

“You do,” his Cat had sighed, her shoulders tensing as she was wont to do when she had an reservation that she sought to repress. _Family, Duty, Honor._ Even as a Stark, she retained her maiden words. And though she was unhappy at the thought of Ned even considering the daughter of Lord Bolton – the daughter of a man whose sigil of the flayed man was considered wild and bloodthirsty even by northern standards... she understood at least the need to keep harmony in the North, and Robb's duty as the Heir to Lord Paramountcy of the same.

 

“Very well,” she said after a moment. “I will of course support your decision. I suppose it won't do any harm to at least welcome the girl to Winterfell,” she finished with a nod. “And if it means putting on a mummer's farce that Lord Bolton seeks to introduce his daughter to Sansa, and present herself to her father's liege, so be it.”

 

Ned nodded. “I will write to Lord Bolton, granting permission but begging he make haste: it would be best if she come quickly, and we have the matter resolved one way or another before the royal party arrives. For when the King arrives-”

 

“When the King arrives, you cannot guarantee that you will be staying when the King departs.” his lady wife shared his thoughts.

 

“Aye. And I will speak to Robb – while he cannot escape the burdens that come with lordship, I will give him some choice and foresight in the matter. If we or he find the girl intolerable, I will write to Lords Karstark, Manderly, Lady Mormont... I will not leave for the south without having this issue settled.”

 

It had been more than that. In truth he feared that the King was coming to request he go to King's Landing and take the position that Jon Arryn's death had rendered vacant. Though he had been loath to express such thoughts to his wife, they both knew his brother and father had both gone to King's Landing at the summons of another king, and had not survived the experience. And while Robert would never intentionally do him harm, he was certain, the murder of Jon Arryn spoke of things afoot in the capital, and a city of the size and scope of King's Landing was a cesspit of intrigue at the best of times. It would be many times worse if the Queen herself were actually involved, as Lysa's letter had suggested.

 

If he were to go – and he would not shirk his duty to the King should it be asked of him, and certainly not out of a craven fear of premonitions and old hauntings – then he would at the very least leave the North best suited to endure his absence, with his son's right and ability to lordship unquestioned and the issue of succession clear and sundry. The Northerners were a loyal but fractious lot, and better now to solve the issue – and endure whatever protests the Karstarks, Glovers, Umbers, Manderlys, Flints or even Bolton would voice for their own women being passed over in favor of one of the others – than to leave the issue unresolved when hot blood and hot tempers might interfere at the worst possible time.

 

He chuckled. And anyway, Winter was Coming... and it was good for a young man to have a full bed to occupy himself during the cold nights!

* * *

  

**Arya**

 

Everyone was stupid! Stupid Sansa with her stupid friends and the stupid Septa with her stupid lessons about stupid things that Arya cared not a whit for while the stupid boys got to spend their hours in the tiltyard fighting with swords and bows and listening to the old war stories of Jory Cassel – the Winterfell Captain of the Guard. And to be fair yes they had to endure lessons as well with Maester Luwin, learning history and their numbers and other boring things but even _that_ was better than endless amounts of dancing and singing and sewing. _Sewing_. With a scowl, she jabbed her needle through the linens once more, continuing her line of serviceable – just! - line of stitches, like a ragged line of pikemen. She smiled at that. Yes, pikemen. Now she would do a line of archers, no two lines, because archers had to stay behind the pikes to keep them safe from the cavalry that were... well she, would add them later. Maybe -

 

“Smaller lines, Arya,” Septa Mordane interrupted, face chiding. “Take a look at your sister's needlework, how the spacing between each stitch is constant. And _gentle_ _ **,**_ it is a needle, not a sword.”

 

Well, and to think the lesson had almost been bearable for a turn. And now Sansa had a stupid little smile on her stupid pretty face.

 

Even worse, Sansa had a new friend, who would probably giggle (stupidly) about how wonderful Sansa was, and how _pretty_ Sansa was, and how much better she was at everything than Arya.

 

She had been delighted when her father had told them a few nights ago that the Leech Lor- that Lord Bolton's daughter – would be visiting Winterfell for a half-turn of the moon. If _any_ girl was likely to be interesting, who would understand that Arya would prefer to climb the walls and towers of Winterfell with her brother Bran or watch (or if she had her druthers, join) her older brothers sparring, surely it would be a girl from the _Dreadfort._ This side of Bear Island, at any rate!

 

But, no. Daracha Bolton had been polite and soft spoken and _boring_. And she played a _harp_ and _sang_ and her stitches had not been criticized by the Septa.

 

However... she did not giggle along with stupid Jeyne Poole, had not in truth japed at her expense at all. And she didn't talk about stupid girly things. Much. She was quiet, except when she had been asked to sing and in _that,_ if not in her stitching, she had outdone Sansa, Arya thought smugly. So, she admitted silently to herself, a tad grudgingly, that perhaps Daracha wasn't entirely rotten.

 

She wasn't as fun as the boys though, and when Septa Mordane turned her back, Arya bolted from the lesson room.

 

She wondered first through the Godswood, knowing from experience that the Septa would not enter, and would soon enough decide that Arya was a lost cause for the day and return to help the other girls, like they really needed to be told that they had even more sewing to do! No doubt her mother would be informed, but that was a bridge Arya would cross when she came to it – for now, she would enjoy the dying light of the afternoon for another turn of the glass and then find her bothers: Bran had recently begun training to use the bow, and Arya enjoyed listening in on his lessons, as when Robb or Jon fought – or their family's ward, Theon Greyjoy – they were less inclined to exchange anything about how to fight but rather tell one another the same handful of bawdy japes. Which were also an education of sorts, though not one their lady mother would be pleased to discover; either that the boys were discussing or that Arya was listening in on.

 

She could hear them now as she walked towards Winterfell's barracks, the clash of metal as Robb and... Theon, today, went at one another in a practice melee, though they seemed to be coming to their end, as they lowered their swords, both panting and heavily laden with sweat even in the cool, crisp air of the dying day. They were walking over to where Jon and Bran were practicing with the bow, the elder assisting the younger from time to time with his posture and shot. On tiptoe, she crept closer before squatting in the dirt to eavesdrop.

 

“Not a bad shot,” Robb called out as Bran's arrow flew more-or-less true, hitting the outer edge of the target. Arya smirked – only yesterday had their father berated the older boys for mocking Bran's arrows, reminding them quite bluntly about their own mishappenings when they had been first learning to use the bow.

 

“Thank you. I'm getting better.” Bran replied, defensively.

 

Jon nodded at that. “You are. It is a question of consistency. When you are in a fray or hunt, you cannot afford to be uncertain in your shot.”

 

Bran nodded solemnly at the pronouncement, but Theon snorted at it.  
  
“What does a bastard know about a real fight? The arrow in your hands is as green as the arrow between your legs.”

 

“And I suppose you have bested a score of men, twice your size,” Jon bit back.

 

“I've been in a brawl or three in the taverns of Wintertown,” Theon boasted. “And I've whet my weapon there as well.”

 

Arya could not see it, but she would have bet a silver stag that Jon rolled his eyes at that.

 

“Of course, they say that castle-trained makes the best weapon handler, and there's a new-”

 

“Shut your gob.” Robb hissed. Now _that_ was interesting, normally it was Jon that grew short with Theon first while Robb tried to play maester between the two. Arya edged closer, this could be _fun_.

 

“My father would skin you alive if he heard you speak so, if he didn't hand you over to her own father instead.”

 

Jon snickered at that. “Do you think the girls of Wintertown would look fondly upon you if you showed up without a coat of skin?”

 

“All right, I jape,” Theon said, a sulk creeping into his voice. “We all know why she's here, any way. Don't we, Robb?” There was no mistaking the lechery in his voice now.

 

Better and better. _We_ , in fact, did not all know why _she_ was here. Arya held her breath.

 

“I have not noticed much,” Robb said, his voice far too airy to be sincere. “She is good with a harp, and well mannered. I suppose she is comely enough, if she is your type.”

 

“I've seen prettier,” Theon jibed. “Bedded prettier too. With much bigger teats.” He boasted.

 

“You also bedded worse,” Robb grumbled.

 

“That's certainly true.” Jon added.

 

“I do wonder though, do you think in the Dreadfort they teach a girl how to flay you with her teeth?” Theon asked with an air of well-rehearsed innocence.

 

Arya did not know what that meant, but the boys winced at that, except Bran, so clearly it was something she didn't know, and something her mother would prefer to keep that way. She would have to ask Jon later, when he was alone.

 

As she was reflecting on Theon's riddle for a second time, she heard her father's voice, calling out to the boys. Silent as she had arrived, Arya departed – mayhap there was time sneak into the stables before her mother came to search for her. It would be better if she were “found” in the usual place, after all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Hello! This is my first foray into Game of Thrones, so consider this a bit of an experiment. I am a fan of alternate history so I've got the big picture all plotted out, but I'm afraid I am still trying to feel my way regarding tone. Criticism welcome!
> 
> There are obviously a few interlocking points of divergence, and I have played fast and loose to some degree with the time-line. First, Domeric is now Daracha, a name I chose because it is Scottish, sounds suitably Westerosi bizarre, and begins with a “D”. Hopefully the oddness of it does not contribute to Mary-Sue vibes. At least Roose isn't sending Aurora Violet Theodora Nymeria Bolton to Winterfell... The sex change has many implications – small and large – that we will delve into in future chapters. For now, it suffices that Daracha, unlike Domeric, was not a squire in The Vale, but a Lady-in-waiting in The Reach. The time line of their respective returns to the Dreadfort is not the same. Also, Daracha had less inclination to seek out her bastard half-brother, and Lord Bolton had a greater incentive (and as it would be unthinkable for a lady to go off unchaperoned, greater opportunity) to prevent such a meet-up under any circumstances, Daracha's choice or no. So where Domeric is dead, Daracha is not. The other significant PoD is that Ned recognizes that his son and heir is 15, he himself may be leaving the North for an extended period of time, and Winter is Coming... the issue of the Stark line needs to be addressed. Obviously, this will cause significant butterflies. How they will play out, we shall see.
> 
> Do not think this 'solves' the Frey/Bolton mess though. Ramsay still exists. Roose Bolton and Walder Frey are still Roose Bolton and Walder Frey. This is not a straight forward 'fix-it'. Half the fun of alternate history is breaking something that never broke for every pitfall avoided.


	2. A Summons Requested (Robert Baratheon)

**Chapter 2**

 

**Robert Baratheon**

 

Ah but this was Life! Life worth living, and not the Godsforesaken dullness that was bloody King's Landing, where a King had naught to do but to listen to Petyr Baelish natter on and on about the state of the coppers or the slippery devil of a eunuch Varys simper and snicker about the latest intrigue. Find a problem and kill it – that had served him well enough to take the wretched throne, but it wasn't enough to let him hold it, apparently. And even Jon Arryn – and he wouldn't speak a word badly about Jon, not after how much he loved that man and all Jon had done for him for more turns of the seasons than merited counting... but the capital had changed him, aged him before his time. Even before his death he could see it, the burden of governance weighing down on the once energetic Valeman. As it did on the King himself. Course he was no maester but it likely hadn't helped that Jon's wife was a complete nutter and his child a weak and miserable little wretch, almost as bad as his own scold of a queen...

 

But enough about that – it didn't do to dwell on Jon's death, not as every day he rode closer to reuniting with his old friend, Ned. Gods, but would be it good to share a pint of lager with a man actually worth his piss! And the Scold was half a league behind in that wretched wheelhouse of hers, all reds and golds as if she were still a Lion of Casterly Rock and not the stag he'd foolishly made her into all those years ago, when there was more to life than a warm wench and a barrel of sour Dornish Red. Not that there were anything wrong with either of those things, but... well a man – even a King – needed someone who he could talk to without tongues flapping and a nag of a wife's disapproval at damn near everything. Oh, but he couldn't wait to see Ned again!

 

And the trip hadn't been half bad either – what a joy it was to be out riding away from the stink of the city. And yes, he'd had to stop in every pisspot of a castle along the Kingsroad, but the wenches and the wine were as good as any back in the city, and the countryside in between them was a marked improvement – as was the smell. Even his son, Prince Joffrey – sullen lad that he had been since their departure – had perked up when they crossed the Trident, and he had recounted the story of where, not far from this very spot, he had hammered the life out of the thieving Rhaegar Targaryen and all but won his own crown that day, in the coldflowing waters of the Ruby Ford.

 

Joffrey's eyes had flashed full of passion, then. “If any Targaryen pretender tries to return when I'm King, I'll slice his belly here as well!”

 

“Ha! That you will. The Riverlands made the dragon spawn, and it was here we broke them. Not far to the North now – and a more fine group of men-at-arms to have at your side in the heat of battle you aren't likely to find.”

 

“Mother says they're nothing but a bunch of brutes and barbarians.”

 

“You'll watch your mouth, lad.” he had reprimanded before the boy could get another damnfool word in edgewise. “They're a damn fine bunch and one day you'll be their King. I should have taken you out earlier – it's no good to be the King if you've no idea who you are King of, what make up the lands you rule over. Need to know the men you can trust at your back.”

 

He smiled in fond memory at that – there weren't many days when he had been close with his eldest son and heir, but riding through the Riverlands and reliving the glory days of Robert's Rebellion – that had been a good one, he could almost pretend that Joffrey was Ned, the two riding to victory after victory. Joffrey's parroting his mother's damn fool remarks the only dark spot, but even then his son had been contrite, brightening up considerably when he had waxed like a bloody bard about the Northern arms that had helped to seat a Baratheon on the Iron Throne.

 

“Fond memories, Your Grace?” Robert shook his head slightly, coming out of his dreams to see that Jamie Lannister, his wife's brother and member of his own Kingsguard had ridden almost even with him, sticking out like a torch in his white armor that shone in the summer sun, that cocksure grin of his stuck as ever on his face.

 

“Thinking about the last time I rode through these parts,” Robert responded gruffly, begrudging Jamie taking him out of his fond memories. “What is it you want?”

 

“Nothing, Your Grace, only to inform you that we are entering Frey lands, and the Queen wishes to ask when we might stop for the evening.”

 

Robert snorted at that, a great horse-like wheeze. “Well we aren't going to go haring off the Kingsroad on some half bogged-out donkey trail just to give the Late Walder Frey a chance to snub us,” he roared. “Useless bloody man, and just as stingy with the purse as he is with arms. Have you heard the story of how he showed up late to the Battle of the Trident?”

 

“I'm afraid the details of it escape me at the moment, Your Grace.”

 

“Shows up after I'd already won the day, swore blind he'd come as fast as he could with nothing but the purest intentions to fight at my side. Useless craven. Ought to have hung him that very day. No we haven't the days to waste – if Walder Frey wants to meet us, he can bloody well come out and do it himself.”

 

“Excellent decision, Your Grace – shall I tell the Queen that we will be making camp under canvas come the evening, or shall I send a runner to Atranta and let them know Your Grace will be their guest for the night?”

 

“And let me tell you something else – 'We Take Our Toll'. Pah! What a load of old horseshit.” Robert continued. “Toll from what – the odd fool on an old ass going from Seaguard to where – the bog men in The Neck? Some hovel on the Vale border. What sort of fool would go slogging through this mud and swamp for the privilege of scraping to Walder Frey and his precious bridge!?”

 

“I hadn't thought about that, Your Grace. Very true.”

 

“Oh, bugger off,” Robert griped. “And send word to Lord Vance that we'll be making use of his keep tonight. Not something I could have said the last time I was here, eh?”

 

“Not the canvas tonight, then?”  


“No.” Robert thought for a moment, deliberating on the point. “Once we get into the neck we'll be under canvas more nights than not, one less night of my wife moaning about it, the better.”

 

That however, was the only damp spot – figuratively if mayhap not literally; for as they passed northward along the Kingsroad to Winterfell, through the swamps of The Neck, past the relic of Moat Cailin and along into the open moors that were broken only low lying heather-laden hillsides that marked the eastern boundaries of the Barrowlands, Robert felt more alive than he had in years, even more so than he had while recounting victories in the Riverlands. What he wouldn't give to spend his days in a place like this, hunting grouse or foxes, or the wolves that Ned said still stalked in great packs, through the vast woods that ran from Winterfell to the Bay of Ice on the Sunset Sea and gave the Wolfswood its name. Let Stannis deal with the drek and tedium of King's Landing, the dour louse!

 

A further fortnight of well-paced (even if burdened down by the wheelhouses – insufferable things) travel, and they arrived at Castle Cerwyn, a squat stone square of a stronghold that sat on a glacis overlooking the western branch of the White Knife, a small river this far upstream but rapid and full, where steep banks allowed the castle to defend the bridge as the only viable crossing. A canal had been dug at one point so that a the Castle was in truth on a raised artificial island, between the river and its moat, with a narrow berm before a great curtain wall that was painted at intervals with strange runes. Castle Cerwyn was, Robert recalled, oft called by Northerners The Barbican of Winterfell, defending as it did the final approach from the South to the beating heart of The North, and his own heart lifted once more to think that in but another day's riding – not even one in full – he would at last be reunited with his old friend.

 

It was in truth a mild disappointment that Ned had not ridden to Castle Cerwyn to greet them, but then the ravens were as sparse as the keeps so far north and likely a man like Ned would be all duty and work until the King arrived on his own doorstep! Lord Medger Cerwyn was a fine host after many nights under canvas that even he was missing a proper banquet hall. And if Lord Medger was as generous with the roasted boar and the keg of strong northern stout as the red headed serving girl was with her own goods – there were times when it was good to be the King.

 

But none of it compared to when he finally heard the words he'd been waiting these past two moons for.

 

“Welcome, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”

 

“None of that rubbish from you! Ned, but it is good to see you. Very good indeed!” He exclaimed cheerfully, hardly a moment before he'd finished dismounting, and well before his guards or wife could muck up the reunion with calls for proper pomp and ceremony. “By the Gods it's good to be here, just like old times, eh?” He pulled Ned into a great hug, grabbing his arms to look at the face of the man who he felt greater affection for than his own brothers. “You've grown fat!”

 

Ned – always so serious! - hadn't quite known how to respond to that, but then they had laughed and Ned had introduced the King to his lady wife and children.

 

“Ah, Robb, my namesake! Just a babe when I took the throne, now look at you! You'll be a great lord one day.”

 

“Sansa, you've every bit of your mother's beauty.” She had blushed at that, and Robert had smiled, noting how she had peeked over his shoulder to no doubt seek the attentions of his own son.

 

He had laughed deeply and cheerfully when Bran had replied to his query that he wished to one day be a Knight of the Kingsguard. “We'll see what you can do lad – mayhap I'll have a chance to see you in the yards while I am here.”

 

He had paused for a moment at Arya. “The spitting image,” he said to Ned, turning as he did so. “She's got the wolfsblood, I'd wager a stack of dragons on it.”

 

“Aye,” Ned had replied with a chuckle.

 

“Good!” Robert declared, “Nothing wrong with a lass who enjoys a bit of adventure.” Arya had visibly preened at that.

 

“And this one will grow up to be a big strong one as well!” he said of Rickon, rubbing the young boy's – hardly more than a babe – head with one meaty hand, ruffling his hair in a way that was sure to scandalize his wife, no doubt biting her tongue so hard it might fall out – and wouldn't that be an occasion to celebrate.

 

There was a pause, as the rest of the royal family took up their place a step behind their father. “Right,” Robert said, ignoring them for the nonce. “Ned, I'd like to pay my respects, take me to the crypts.”

 

“Your Grace...” Ned hesitated, awkward for a moment, clearly torn between obeying his King and friend and jilting the queen. Not that he could blame him – bloody woman put everyone's bits on edge, from teeth to toenails.

 

“Your wife and children can escort mine inside, get to know one another,” Robert dismissed, casually with a wave of his hand. “You and I have some catching up to do.” With a look to his wife, Ned then stepped up to the King, and with a quick, “Your Grace,” led the way to the crypts of Winterfell – and in particular, to the crypt of Ned's sister, Lyanna, the women who had stolen and never relinquished Robert's heart and the catalyst for the war that had given him a loveless throne, instead.

 

“It's gloomy,” Robert remarked after a stretching silence. “And dark.”

 

“Aye, Your Grace.”

 

“Lyanna wasn't either of those things. She shouldn't be now. She should be out in the warm sun. Another crime that damned dragonspawn got away with.”

 

“I apologize, Your Grace.”

 

There was naught else to be said about that.

 

“I'll be honest with you, Ned.” the King spoke once more after another bout of silence. “I didn't come all the way to Winterfell to come to your crypts – though I should have come before now – but... well, I take it you received word about the business in the capital.”

 

“I did, Your Grace. He was a fine man. None know better than you or I.”

 

“Too right. So you'll understand that there's none I trusted more, save yourself. I'd like – no, I need – you to come back south with me, to take his place as my Hand.”

 

Ned looked resigned and for a moment Robert felt an icy fear that he would refuse. “I know – by the Gods Old and New! - I know you've got every reason to want to never go to that bloody cesspit of a city ever again. Nobody blames you for that, Ned. Certainly not me. Nobody. But... dammit man I need you and there's not a soul in that city I can trust half as much as you.”

 

“I understand, Your Grace.”

 

“And I wouldn't ever think to persuade you with titles or coin, too honorable for that by half! But I've wanted to join our houses ever since that piece of Dragonshit prevented it all those years ago. I want to enjoin our blood, have my son betrothed to your daughter. We'll ride south again as Baratheon and Stark together as one, put the fear back in the hearts of every craven and knave that's been kissing my royal boots for the past five-and-ten years thinking I'd forget where their loyalties lay when the swords were drawn!

 

Ned had chuckled at that, though even the man's laugh was sober and grim. But that was just Ned, and how he'd missed it!

 

“You do me a great honor, Your Grace.”

 

“Damn the honor, man. I want _you_. Bring your self and your daughter – seven hells, bring that son of yours, Bran. I'll make him my squire and if he can befriend my son and not be an utter lick-spittle about it I'll make him a Knight before you can say “King's Tourney”.

 

Robert had nothing left to say with words, then. And Ned, damn his silence but bless his honor and loyalty when after another moment, agreed.

 

“Fantastic. A Knight, a Princess, and a Hand. And that's the least I could give to the likes of you, Ned.”

 

“You honor me, Your Grace.”

 

“Well, if I honor you so much, you can quit this 'Your Grace' nonsense and call be Rob. And then you can be the one to tell my wife what I've just done – if I have another Lannister show up petitioning for royal office I'll tell Lord Tywin where to put it, 'Friend of the Crown' or no.” He clapped his hands. “Right, let's go then. I suppose you better meet the rest of the Royal Family if you're going to be joining it. You have any of that Ramsgate bitter we had a few times as lads?”

 

“I believe a barrel or two arrived within the last shipment, Your Grace.”

 

“You're a good man, Ned. A damned good man. Lead on!”

 

He had expected to have to spend the better part of the planned fortnight wooing Ned to King's Landing, but in the end he had won over his oldest friend before the first evening, and so there was naught required of him yet it seemed absurd to immediately turn around and go back the way they came, especially when returning meant the usual business of King's Landing.

 

“Stannis is running the Kingdom for now – see how much he really enjoys being in charge,” Robert had told Ned when the subject was breached. “He almost ran off to Dragonstone in a strop as he is prone to do, but his sense of honor rivals your own. Less fun though. You can be as grave as your northern snows, but my younger brother wouldn't know a jape if it up and bit him in the arse,” Robert laughed, his tankard perilously close to pouring over the brim as the queen scowled – though at his closeness to Ned, his open flirtation with drunkenness, or his even more overt dalliances with any of the serving maid's within eyeshot... a copper star on all three, really.

 

“I do beg, Your Grace, for one allowance,” Ned had asked half-way into his stay. “I am in correspondence with my bannermen to ensure there are no ongoing concerns when I head south. If you'd allow me to stay behind, to join you in the city some months hence – no more than three, I swear, it would put my mind at ease that all would be well in my absence.”

 

Robert had frowned at that. “Ah, I suppose that's fair enough,” he grumbled good-naturedly after a turn. “I'll take your children with me – my son and your daughter seem enamored enough, 'tis a good match, and Bran can become accustomed to squiring on the journey. And you'll take a fast ship when you've tied things down then.” A hand clap. “That's settled then. He nodded towards the tiltyard, where his own sons were to be taking lessons with Ned's own in swordplay and martial history. “Get that one ready for lordship, I suppose. And an issue, if your serving maids speak true. A comely lass?”

 

“The girl is fair enough and sweet tempered,” Ned replied. “She came here for a few nights at her father's urgings and was pleasant company for Sansa, but in truth my son was hospitable and kind but still more interested in swords that courtship. But 'tis to be expected and I have written to Lord Tyrell, where she spent the past four years attending to his own daughter, asking for an honest report-”

 

“Good luck with that, a suckle-mouth if ever there was one,” Robert interjected.

 

“- but it is more an issue of the northern houses accepting the alliance and mine own concerns about her father than the girl in question,” Ned finished.

 

“It always is,” Robert sighed, eyes shifting unconsciously towards the Winterfell crypts. “But if she's pretty in the eye to interest a man and your son harbors no love for another already, it should work out well enough. Best not to dwell,” his own eyes and gods-be-damned heart ignoring the lesson coming from his own lips.

 

“Aye, Your Grace,” Ned replied, solemnly. “We shall see what Lord Tyrell says, at any rate, and then I shall talk to my son if he has any objections and we will conclude this and other matters in good time.”

 

“And then you'll join me in King's Landing.”

 

“And then I'll join you in King's Landing.”

 

The King was satisfied with that, and so for another week the King drank and recounted war stories to the children that enthralled Robb and Bran and Joffrey and convinced Ned to take himself and all the boys bar Rickon on a hunt through the Wolfswood while his royal wife sulked with her always-smirking brother. And he met the direwolf pups that all the Stark children had received but a day before his arrival – which were _marvelous_ – and laughed and japed more than he had in many months and his heart warmed when he caught Sansa Stark making moon eyes at his own get and so with a heart much less burdened (and ignoring the burdens awaiting it once more), the King returned towards the capital, now with two Stark children who dreamed of southern wonder lands in tow.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Bran does not get pushed from the tower, but goes South. Arya stays behind.
> 
> King Robert is a very unhappy man. I believe that yes, the King loves whoring and drinking for their own sake, but more and more he enjoys them because they are a lifeline to the life and loves he used to have. He was a man that excelled at something, and was then forced to rot away at something he was utterly unfit for. His only happiness comes from dreams of times that no longer are. It's hard to feel sorry for a King, perhaps, but Robert is a very tragic character.


	3. A Pact Accepted (Roose Bolton)

 

**Chapter 3**

 

**Roose Bolton**

 

They called him many things, particularly when they assumed they were safe from his eyes and ears. But there were few secrets that could be kept from him when he put his mind to cutting them out of wagging tongues. Leech Lord. Bloody Bolton. Sir Skins. As many other idiotic alliterations as men are wont to think up when the beer flows and no men of noble blood are within earshot. They also called him cunning. Ambitious. Cruel – and that admittedly did smart a touch, for while not a warm and jolly caricature of a Lord like Wyman Manderly to the south at White Harbor, he was not unfair with justice nor arbitrary in his duties. But mayhap to a greater or lesser degree he was all those other things men whispered. But what everyone from the highest lord seeking favor in King's Landing to the small-minded smallfolk oft overlooked was _patient._ A trait that now looked to be paying off in full.

 

For time immemorial, since long before the fall of the Boltons from Kingship, even from a time before the first Bolton was proclaimed the Red King of the Dreadfort, those of his blood had coveted Winterfell, the great Castle built by the North's greatest legend from the Age of Heroes, sitting as it did in the center of the North, the largest gem on a crown of ice and snow. Even when both Stark and Bolton had been Kings in their centuries-long feud that had seen more than one Stark ruler skinned in the bowels of the Bolton ancestral home, the Dreadfort had always been considered the _other_ Kingdom, the one that was not quite within its rights to win lordship of The North.

 

And that too rankled, but it was nonetheless the way it was and it was foolish to act like a jilted maiden over long settled historical fact. Too often his forefathers had lashed out against the injustice, but with no purpose to their campaign but trusting in its own sake. Unsurprisingly, this oft ended poorly.

 

But now he was living in a different era. Now, Winterfell was ruled by Ned Stark, an honorable man and one, to be just, led the North well. On that point, Roose could offer no counter and Lord Stark had in truth earned all the respect and faithfulness that the Dreadfort could ever muster for Winterfell. But he was nonetheless a second son, one who had never had any sort of familial guidance for the role he had found himself nor any expectation he would ever fill it, winning his Lordship when the Mad King had taken his brother's and father's lives in a blaze of fire and madness.

 

And so for all his good efforts, Ned had not fortified his own household quite as well as the late Rickard Stark most certainly would have – had in fact been doing before he died, paving the way for a Stark alliance with the Riverlords that had been the lynchpin of the rebellion's success.

 

“I don't like it,” Barbrey Dustin, his good-sister and his daughter's surrogate mother since the death of his second wife, grumbled as she scooted along the wooden settee, inching away from the fire that burned hot and filled the parlor with a damp orange glow. “You'd find a better match in the south! Or even to a second son elsewhere in the north. Especially a second son.”

 

“You say this because you are harbor a woman's anger and cannot overcome your bitterness,” Lord Bolton replied, his voice barely a whisper above the crackle of the flames. “It is not something I blame you for, but you allow your dislike for Ned Stark over your husband's death to cloud your senses.”

 

He took a sip from his goblet, a preciously rare mulled wine that was made of a fortified Dornish Red unique to the shores of the Greenblood and then seasoned with the many varieties of citrus fruits local to the vineyards of that region and then touched with clove spice from across the Narrow Sea. Even a man like Roose was to enjoy his small luxuries.

 

“Lord Stark,” Roose continued, “has three concerns at the moment.” He put down his cup in order to raise his hand, punctuating his thoughts with a lifted finger, checking off each point.

 

“First, his oldest son remains unwed and unspoken for, and the possibilities are beginning to slip through Stark's fingers like a late snow. Alys Karstark is already betrothed, as are Matilda Umber, Jeyne Glover, and Alyth Flint. All the most obvious, most advantageous matches are closed to him at this point. He will look where? The Mormonts are too poor and the Manderlys are too loyal for there to be any gain to such a match. Old Howland Reed's get? The daughter of a clan chief or a petty lord? For his younger sons, such matches would be tolerable, if only just. But to spend the coin of Wintefell's future on such – never.”

 

“Second, he would leave his son a divided north. None would revolt against Ned Stark, and none would want too,” he gave his good-sister a significant look at that, and she kept her tongue. “But it is no secret that there are those who felt too much northern blood and coin were spent on southern affairs, a sentiment that the King – a King that Lord Stark did so much to sit 'pon the Iron Throne – does nothing to sooth. He cannot arrange a betrothal in the south and expect the North to remain quiet.

 

And finally – though I admit this is most fortuitous; I had no part in its development and knew nothing of it before I had cast mine lot – Ned rides south, and Winter is Coming.”

 

They sat in silence for a moment, Roose once more sipping at his drink as his good-sister composed her thoughts.

 

“Your words aren't untrue,” she said at last, sounding slightly pained for saying so. “But even so – Daracha is my favored niece, and since my sister's passing I feel at times as if I have played the part of her own mother. You _cannot_ marry into that family. To give such satisfaction to Ned Stark!”

 

“As you say, you played but a part,” Roose interrupted, a force that fell into place behind his words though he never ranted nor screamed like a man angry and self-sure in his cups. “But I am her father. Daracha is of the finest lineage of the North, A Bolton and Ryswell. The other houses will not object overmuch, particularly as the greater lords save the Manderlys have no proposal of their own to counter mine. And it will mend the breech with those houses most unsettled by Ned's southern attentions.

 

“I offer the Starks at least two generations of a united North, and I will not shirk on the dowry. In exchange, a Lord half of Bolton blood will one day rule from Winterfell.”

 

Any further objections or revelations were arrested by a knock on the parlor door.

 

“The door is unlocked,” he called out, placing his cup down and taking a moment to readjust his cloak as he did so.

 

“You asked to see me, Father? Auntie Barb?” Daracha asked softly as she stepped into the warm glow of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Roose approved of that – he hated loud children.

 

“Yes. Please sit.” Roose inclined his head towards the long wooden setee and the space near the fire that Lady Dustin had vacated.

 

The girl moved to take a seat quickly; she reminded Roose of a filly or mayhap a young hunting pup – sleek and slender but still catching up to her own growth, with limbs a bit too long and a grace that was not yet quite perfected, lean but beginning to show that she would one day quite soon have a woman's softness. She took more after her mother than himself so much that at there were times it saddened her to look upon her. She had her mother's hair, a softer brown than his own black, but unlike her mother she wore it as if she were of The Reach, where she had spent the past four years – and though Roose had little care for such frivolities he had not discouraged it; Though they had married for convenience Lord Stark seemed genuinely taken with his Tully wife, and Catelyn Stark still kept herself in the Riverland fashions in face if not in fabrics; it was possible Robb shared his father's preferences. She had the angular nose and chin of the Ryswell line, but she wore them as well as she could, and green-grey eyes that were common enough near the neck and White Harbor but rarer still the closer one journeyed towards the wall. She had his fingers though, Bolton hands that could hold a knife well: short and nimble and strong. She had his voice too, soft but demanding audience.

 

It would have been better were she not so naturally demure, but mayhap that was less a weakness on her own part and a natural reaction to a father like himself. But that too, could work in his favor.

 

“Your aunt and I have been discussing your future,” he stated when she had seated herself, and his daughter did not seem surprised by this. Good. “During your stay at Winterfell, how did you find Robb Stark?”

 

Daracha frowned slightly, eyes glazing over in search of recollection. “He is handsome, and Sansa said he was very kind, though I found him in truth distant. He was polite but paid me only the attention that was courteous – he seemed far more interested in spending time with his father's ward and bastard.”

 

Roose nodded at that, taking note – bastards were oft overlooked and could prove useful. “He is a boy on the cusp of manhood – it is not unusual that the tiltyard offers greater temptation than polite courtship.” A thought occurred. “Did he visit the brothels?”

 

“Father!” Daracha yelped, turning slightly pink in the firelight. “Not that I am aware. Nor that I would have _thought_ to note it.” She paused. “I caught his eye lingering, when I sang. I do not think he noticed though.”

 

“That is a start. It would be a more sure thing if the son were willing to pressure his father, but no matter, you will win him over with your charms soon enough.”

 

“How sweet,” Barbary interjected, smile tight and voice falsely pitched.

 

Roose did not raise to the jape. “Lord Stark has sent me a summons,” he said instead, lifting a piece of parchment that he had kept next to his cup. “Is there anything I ought know before I ride for Winterfell? That ought make me change my mind on this affair?”

 

Daracha shook her head, “No, father.”

 

Roose nodded. “Good.”

 

“I leave at first light then – your aunt has agreed to delay her return to Barrowton until my return. And mayhap you ought consider a nameday gift for your intended, all should be settled before then. Your aunt was just suggesting to me a thoroughbred Rills Courser, 15 hands and rose gray to symbolize the conjoining of our houses if a quality horse of such coloring is available, sorrel or blood bay if not.”

 

“Indeed.” Barbara replied, narrowly avoiding spluttering into her own cup and shooting a pointed look at him over his daughter's head. “As a sign of goodwill among your entire family. Amends.” She all but spat the last word, though Daracha's mind was elsewhere and she did not notice.

 

Daracha nodded. “Thank you, auntie. I shall consider the matter.”

 

Roose gave them both a pallid smile. “That is it then; I shall let you know one way or another as soon as I have word.” He stopped in front of his daughter and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Soon.”

 

That was now a half-moon ago, and now he approached the walls of Winterfell. Now all would determine whether the opportunity that had presented itself through Ned's carelessness and fortune's bold strike had been worth a gamble of his own, offering his only trueborn heir to the Starks. His good-sister had been correct that a second or even the right third son would have been the sensible, traditional choice, offering a lesser lord a prestigious marriage in exchange for a second son taking the Bolton name. But... opportunities to place a Bolton in Winterfell were as rare as hen's teeth, especially when it could be done without the spilling of Bolton blood.

 

The castle had welcomed him of course as befitting his station, the Stark children as remained in Winterfell polite though the girl clearly fighting to keep her mouth shut. Smart girl.

 

“For a dowry, I will provide two-hundred golden dragons, as well as a retinue of two score men-at-arms, including a blacksmith and a furrier, and their salaries, to be of service to Winterfell in perpetuity. As well as a copper mine and its incomes, two leagues downstream of the Dreadfort, the hamlet of smallfolk who service it, and the taxes levied upon any pelts or timber taken within two miles of the same. And for the first winter during the marriage, a fifth of the produce I am currently negotiating for from Lord Tyrell, in addition to one-hundred-and-fifty ells of dyed wools from Highgarden and two dozen of Braavosi velvet.”

 

Ned Stark was silent, frowning slightly but that was his natural state and so not concerning in and of itself, and continued to walk with Lord Bolton through Winterfell's Godswood, as the two men negotiated their houses' futures where the Gods could provide witness to the oaths and agreements being made. “That is a very generous offer, Lord Bolton,” he said at last.

 

“Only what is reasonable, my Lord,” Roose Bolton replied, knowing full well that if he were to play his final card, now was his moment. “Though while we are on the matter, I do have one other issue that I ask be considered.”

 

Lord Stark's eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not seem surprised. He cursed silently, he did not like to think of himself as predictable. He should have considered that.

 

“It is not unheard of, but it is not common to marry one's only trueborn heir – and a daughter at that – to the eldest son of a great lord. And the male line of the Boltons dies with me. I have a natural-born son, who lives with his mother a day's ride from my holdfast.”

 

“You want to legitimize your son,” Ned supplied, straight to the point as always.

 

Roose inclined his head. “Yes, my Lord. Or rather, I would ask for your permission and support for a to petition the King on this issue: I would have Ramsay's place in succession secured as my son and hier to the Dreadfort, behind any true-born sons I might have.” Of which there were currently naught. “As there must always be a Stark at Winterfell, so do I feel about a Bolton at The Dreadfort.”

 

Ned let out a breath. “I had no illusions that you would wish to unite Winterfell and The Dreadfort under a single lordship,” he said at last. “And I did not consider your proposal with that in mind. Your daughter met my approval – as, I am sure you are aware, she met Lord Tyrell's.” Roose said nothing to that but inclined his head slightly.

 

“But Ramsay... I have heard things, Lord Bolton. Things that suggest he is not fit for Lordship, even if one were to overcome the baseness of his birth. Even if you convinced your sworn bannermen to accept him.”

 

“My son is... he will need guidance,” Roose allowed, almost chewing the words. “He has been indulged, I will admit. His excesses tolerated.” It did not need mentioning that Roose had in fact brought pressure to curb the very worst of it – no reason to suggest Ramsay was an even less satisfactory choice, but for the nonce Roose had no alternatives.

 

“A peaceful land, a quiet people. I would not endanger that. He would be brought to heel and taught the difference between strict lordship and mad tyranny.”

 

Ned stood up, looking up at the Heart tree and its grim face. “Send your son to White Harbor, to serve on one of the fast cogs that Lord Manderly uses to keep The Bite free of piracy. Or else up to the Umbers, to join the militias that keep that catch the Wildlings that evade the Night's Watch; he has been screaming for more men as of late. But force your son to accept orders from another man, and then in turn learn to command others in a lordly way. _Then_ I will consider asking the King for his permission. Not before.”

 

That was a bitter fruit, and he gambled with not an insignificant source of the Dreadfort's direct revenues to set up a favorable return on this issue.

 

But... he had been offered a lifeline for Ramsay. And if the boy was truly unsuitable and could not be made into a halfway decent Lord, it would be better to cut his losses and marry again himself, loath as he had always been to do so.

 

His forefathers would flay him alive if he turned down this opportunity over a bastard son who was touched in the head.

 

“That is fair enough,” he said aloud. “I will send him north and we'll talk no more of this matter. Let us join our houses without another word about it.”

 

“Aye, before the Gods, I accept your terms, and do henceforth consider Daracha Bolton of The Dreadfort betrothed to Robb Stark of Winterfell. To be married two years hence, or before the next winter, whichever comes sooner.”

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, a wedding of a very different nature had already come to pass. Daenerys Targaryen, youngest child of the Mad King and one of two Targaryens to have escaped the bloodthirsty Ursurper's purge with naught but their own skins, had been all but sold by her elder brother Viserys to Khal Drogo: one of the nomadic Dothraki warlords that roamed the great steppes of Essos called the Dothraki Sea. In exchange for his sister and her maidenhood – both that, as the rightful Targaryen heir had been _his_ birthright, he had been given ephemeral promises of aid to reclaiming his crown and throne; words that only now he was beginning to understand were worth the less than the weight of the wind they were spoken on.

 

And if the insult of these horse barbarians spitting on his word of honor were not enough, now his sister – the woman that ought to have been _his_ wife, not this savage's, was pregnant, carrying the brute's spawn. He had, to his horror, not only given up the last thing of value he actually owned – he had created yet another pretender, another false usurper in the process. She had always acted thus!, seeking to undermine him while always playing the meek and fearful sister. Though recently – she had begun to defy him openly, without even the pretense of humility.

 

Something would have to be done.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After further review and listening to commenters, I think I was over-complicating succession rights as well as veering too far from canon to be comfortable. The conversation between Ned and Roose has been modified to reflect a more straightforward legitimization process, done only by the King.
> 
> Roose Bolton (like all characters) is not an utterly trustworthy narrator. Anything he assumes about Ned's motivations, concerns, et. al., no matter how 'sure' he is, is ultimately his own opinion. Colored by his own limited observations and biases. Ned has problems, and as he's stated earlier the choices for Robb aren't wide, but he's not over a barrel. Roose overplays his hand slightly.
> 
> Regarding the dowry: ASOIAF economics are more sensible than Harry Potter economics (where a Krum action figure costs more than a phoenix feather wand), but not that much better. Finding a reasonable price for a dowry proved... complicated. But fortunately, dowries among royalty often were more than mere coin! The Portuguese crown gave Bombay, India and Tangier, Morocco to the British Crown with the marriage of Charles II to Catherine of Braganza. Not bad! So if the monetary value of the dragons seems low, keep in mind he's also giving a village with a copper mine, located on his land's primary waterway, to the Starks as well as all the taxes and salaries thereof. Plus some other odds and ends. That should satisfy the dowry requirements of being a de facto life insurance policy for his daughter as well as showing the Dreadfort's relative wealth and prestige and the value they are placing on this potential marriage.
> 
> Anyway, that's that butterfly taken care of. As there's more to this story than a betrothal, next we go south. And to readers concerned that there is too much focus on a de facto OC: I feel you, but this being the major catalyst it had to be addressed. I promise the story itself revolves around the known players, and not my own conceit.


	4. A Gambit Taken (Stannis Baratheon)

**Chapter 4**

 

 

**Stannis Baratheon**

 

 

No doubt his brother would claim that the city had been the very model of good governance and diligent lordship, and therefore every instance of corruption, graft, bribery, double-crossing treachery and and everything up to and including treason (though ignoring the vice of prostitution, mayhap) was merely a product of the past handful of months since his departure for The North. From where the indomitable Ned Stark would ride down like a hero of old and save the realm of his apparent incompetency.

 

That was always the way of it, Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone seethed, teeth clenched to prevent them from grinding like badly run milling stones as he hurried through the Red Keep to what was sure to be another entirely useless meeting of the small council. His brother would then shower Ned with praise and heap upon himself the blame.

 

Though in this, if he dared admit it, he was his own fool; as if Robert would have given him a task that was not a poisoned chalice from the very start. He had never realized it, blinded as he had been – the power of the Hand was a mummer's farce – a mummer with a badge instead of patch-face or foolscap but a mummer nonetheless – to show the smallfolk and traveling lords while the Lannisters got on with the proper business of investing themselves into all corners of power, however trite. And what few scraps of power they had not managed to place a cousin or a good-brother or a suck-mouth of a vassal, t'was not for lack of trying but because the Tyrells had managed to settle in first, aided in no small part by his foolish younger brother, Renly, who had a squire of one of of Lord Tyrell's sons and, Stannis suspected, who was besotted with his Tyrell squire.

 

And here he was, the door of the small council's chamber. To think he would prefer to come here as merely the Master of Ships, once more. If ever a group of people could more bring out in him the familial words... save perhaps his own family, itself.

 

_Ours is the Fury..._

 

“Afternoon, my lords,” Stannis ground out without ceremony, making his way past the cluster of men already sitting at the table to take his place at its head. Grand Maester Pycelle, slouched and appearing equal parts asleep and ready to join the Stranger, his long beard just a hair away from being considered unkempt. Lord Varys, who was in truth not a lord but a soft, bald-headed eunuch who knew far too many things about far too many people, and so served as Robert's (and the Mad King's before him) Master of Whispers. Though how much of use he was and how much none dared remove him lest the dead man proved to have a final gasp that reached distant ears... Stannis could not say. Lord Petyr Balish, the realm's Master of Coin was here as well, as well coiffed as he was prone to be and wearing a damnable little smirk that always suggested he knew a little jape that you were not privy to.

 

No one sat in the seat for the Master of Ships, for Stannis maintained his old hat for the nonce even as he served as Hand, no doubt he would be back in his old place once Lord Stark arrived. The Master of Laws was also vacant – Renly following in his oldest brother's footsteps in treating his duties to the realm as mere suggestions or whims of fancy, no doubt to instead fret away an afternoon in his squire's company, indulging in strong drink or... other vices. Ser Barristan Selmy was also absent, though like Stannis he was a man who recognized his duty and given the level of filth that transpired at all levels in this city, 'twas better the man who served as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was occupying himself in his role than wasting time in another pointless meeting.

 

Though it was not the eunuch with his opaque secrets, nor the jumped up money grubber with his constant japes that irked Stannis, today; nor the absence of his brother that mocked him; in truth it was the presence of Tywin Lannister, who the Queen had convinced the King to appoint onto the council as a Castellan-cum-regent for the city. Highly irregular, and highly insulting, yet here he was, nominally answering to Stannis as Hand yet through both action and inaction most capable of blocking everything Stannis had thus far attempted to do.

 

Speaking of...

 

“Lord Baelish, any new developments regarding the King's coin?” There wouldn't be.

 

“Not in so many words, Lord Hand,” Baelish responded after an unnecessary pause.

 

_And if there were, you wouldn't tell me. And if you did, Lord Tywin would inform me that all the necessary agents were otherwise occupied, and we would need to delay..._

 

“Our debts are paid in full, then? We find ourselves no longer in need of your services?”

 

“If it were but that simple, my Lord,” Baelish replied enfolding his hands as if to say that he would like nothing more than a quiet retirement. “But not to worry, the debt is on plan to be serviced in due time, and for the time being, Lord Lannister has generously agreed to tide the crown over until more permanent arrangements can be made.”

 

“So the debt, in fact, has gone up, in the past moon.” Stannis ground out.

 

“The King's raven came two night's ago,” Lord Tywin replied. “Asking for a great tourney be prepared for Lord Stark's arrival.” He shrugged as if such expenditure hardly merited mentioning, let alone concern, and Stannis had to resist the urge to slap the man. “I think even the most base smallfolk would agree that the return of such a renowned war hero deserves some recognition.”

 

“It is not the most base smallfolk who are being asked to pay for it,” Stannis replied through clenched teeth.  
  
“Oh, but in a way,” Baelish replied airily. “Taxes do have to start from somewhere, after all.”

 

“I believe the matter is resolved, Lord Hand.” Tywin replied. “The King has made his wishes clear in the writing and I shall do my duty to carry them out as best as one can.”

 

“I can also report on the costs of the new galleys, Lord Hand?” Baelish replied, utterly unhelpfully. “I suppose the Kingdom could save a small army of dragons if it were willing to get by with a few less ships?”

 

And on and on it went, until he was ready to tear out both their tongues to buy himself a moment's respite.

 

“And so we are agreed to do nothing yet again. We will not lower the debt, as out Master of Coin cannot pay out without first taking a loan; we will not investigate the charges of corruption amongst the Gold Cloaks, because we have not the loyal men necessary to attain such a group, nor would such a group be freely capable of acting without a warrant, which our absent Master of Laws cannot deliver. Anything else we can not to today so that we might not do tomorrow?”

 

“Yes, Lord Hand,” Varys spoke at long last. “A rather delicate development across the Narrow Sea, actually – my little birds report that Danaerys Targaryen is with child.”

 

At times like this a faith in the Seven was almost something to regret losing so young, if only so that he might have seven hells to banish the world and all its small councils and distant pretenders unto.

 

“She has at long last married her brother, then.”

 

“Not quite, Lord Hand. Her brother married her off, actually. She carries a Dothraki babe. A Targaryen bride for an army, I believe the deal was.”

 

Oh to hell with all of them, anyway, beliefs be damned.

 

“Let us send an assassin against her husband,” he said at last. “If the King wants to make an issue of killing another Targaryen babe,” he looked unflinchingly at Tywin at this, and Tywin looked unflinchingly back; everyone in the room recalling the deaths of Elia Martell and her two children as the rebellion waxed triumphant.

 

“Then He will do so. But if this is an attempt to gain a Dothraki army, killing her husband should suffice separate fruit from stem. They won't follow. And not even most ardent loyalist still hidden underfoot within the realm would shed tears for a dead Dothraki.”

 

Varys nodded. “It shall be done your grace.”

 

Stannis nodded. “Then we are done. I will see you all a moment too soon, three days hence.”

 

But while the King's Council was utterly useless, a farce wherein Baelish and Lannister plotted for their own purposes, but united in a certainty to keep the Baratheon stag away. Fortunately, he was not a man to allow duty to be thwarted by enemies. An army that found its march closed off must find another way.

 

Which was why the Hand of The King found himself in a dingy warehouse that smelled of fish and other maritime wares, on a nondescript wharf of the port that was still a bustling place this late in the eve.

 

“It's a right mucker, My Lord,” Ser Davos Seaworth, smuggler-turned-knight and Stannis's most loyal man concluded with an air of despondence. “Your lady wife is fully immersed in the matter and... I do not scare easily, my Lord, I am no craven as you well know... but that woman she has taken into her council is a proper witch. Does things, says things – aren't natural.”

 

“You believe mine own household is lost to me.”

 

Davos paused, fidgeting with the flat cap that had been part of his disguise tonight, balling it in his fists.

 

“Out with it, I've always valued your council and have never held a word against you.”

 

“Aye, my Lord,” Davos said heavily. “'tis like some foul possession. Not all the men but... I could not say in faith who left on that island you could trust. And certainly your wife and her kin... it is a dangerous time to be at Dragonstone if you do not worship the witch's fires.”

 

“It is a dangerous time to be at King's Landing,” Stannis snapped aloud, then raised a hand in placation. “I apologize, Ser Davos, you bear me no injury. But this is not the news I had wished to receive...”

 

He let out a tired sigh. “The Lannisters have always run circles around my brother despite my best efforts to protect him, half-banished to that barren Targaryen rock though I was more oft than not. But now Renly has taken up with the Tyrells, a lovesick fool eagerly seeking approval of those that once sought to starve us and strip us of our rightful place. And if that is not enough, when I feel the realm slipping through my grasp, I lose my home... my second home... stolen out from under me.”

 

“Aye, My Lord.”

 

He was a bitter man, and he suffered slights poorly. Stannis was not so foolish that he could not recognize his own faults, though he nursed them to bloom within his heart, his sense of righteousness preventing any true purge, a weakness admittedly.

 

But he was not a fool.

 

“Have you noticed anything odd about the ships in port?” Stannis asked, walking to the wall that, were it to disappear, would yield a view of the Blackwater Bay full of cogs and galleys and fat-bellied barges from the Rush and strange ships from Essos and mayap even a whaling boat from as far aseas as Ib. But...

 

“No Gulltown merchants, Your Grace. It's as if they've all but disappeared from the corners of the earth.”

 

“Lady Lysa knows something.” Stannis said. “Or believes she knows something, the woman was half mad at the very best of times,” he amended. “But either way, she is moving to close off The Vale. She is preparing for a siege. Why?”

 

“I could not say, My Lord.”

 

“Neither could I with absolute certainty, Ser Davos, neither could I. But many things have gone off kilter since Lord Arynn died: the Lannisters have advanced and the Arryns have retreated, to a tune that none but themselves hear.”

 

“You forget the Tyrells, My Lord.”

 

“I forget nothing,” Stannis snorted. “The Tyrells saw a vacuum and they sought to fill it. No, they are base opportunists but they are not the conductor of this piece.”

 

He lost himself for a moment in thought, considering the possibilities.

 

“There is a possibility that I will not speak aloud for now, but know that I have had suspicions regarding the Lannisters for some time. We must move swiftly and surely or we shall lose our heads. There was an issue I spoke at some length with Jon Arryn before he died. How Lysa got word of it, assuming she fled with purpose and not simply out of fear, I do not know. How the Lannisters got hold of it, I do not know. But we must marshal a counterweight regardless.”

 

Devos nodded. The particulars were lost to him but he had known his Lord well enough for many years now, and had been taken in his confidence oft enough, that he had no cause to doubt his word.

 

Stannis' eyes sharpened as he focused back upon the present, decisions made. “Set sail to Dragonstone at first light,” he commanded. “Avoid my wife and her witch – I will write you a summons when I return to my chambers to be delivered to you at the docks. You will be grabbing a number of documents for me, but in truth this is a facade, what matters most is that you remove my daughter Shireen from the maws of the red cult. Trust no one else to come with you.”

 

He paused. “No... on your own judgment, bring Maester Cressen with you as well. I will provide you with a second letter should you need it. He does not deserve to be left with that band of red cultists if he has not been taken by their advances. But nobody else.”

 

“Where am I to take them, My Lord?”

 

“Stonehelm.” Stannis replied without hesitation. “ I have these past weeks sent a rush of couriers to trusted houses throughout the Stormlands, and even to House Royce of Runestone, seeking word from the Vale. Ser Balon Swann will not refuse me, and the Lords of the Marches understand the dire straits arising while their Liege Lord remains confounded by sons of The Reach. I will attend to you there. Look after Shireen.”

 

“Aye, my Lord. Like mine own daughter.”

 

And so Stannis Baratheon found himself reinvigorated; without home nor holdfast nor a brother's love, he once more had a duty and a purpose. Once more, he would ensure that the Stormlands held strong against the threat that rose in the capital and threatened to blow down House Baratheon.

* * *

 

**Bran Stark**

 

It was unquestionably the best of times. How many other boys his age rode with the King of Westeros! With Ser Jamie Lannister! With Ser Meryn Trant! With Ser Boros Blount! Oh, he was always kept busy, and his father had warned him to suffer no illusions that he would be kept moving as if on heated coals once they arrived in King's Landing, even if his own Lord Father were Hand of the King. And he had had to swear that there would be no climbing the towers of the city as if it were his own family castle... but the exchange was well worth it. For he would be one day a Knight – a Knight at the side of a most famous King!

 

They had even seen a tourney, at a bustling place of an unimaginable size called Lord Harroway's Town – thought it was oft called Harroway by those familiar with it – where a great audience had been put together for the King. And to think that many of his new companions thought it to be a tiny occasion, hardly even worth mentioning. What splendor and wealth and size must there be in the South for all of this but to be as if a children's game?

 

He was kept away from Sansa, or so it seemed. But he did not want the men to think of him as but a tiny child who wished to cling to his sister's skirts, and so he laughed at their japes and endured the stares and gasps as Summer quickly grew from pup to a sizeable hound with no sign of stopping. The Queen had made a comment or so he was told but the King had laughed and said his Queen was prone to overserious japes, and that there was naught to worry about and the Sigil of House Stark was always welcome among the Baratheon's of King's Landing.

 

Prince Joffrey oft did not ride with them, but on his own with naught but his own sworn shield to accompany him and this was a disappointment for Bran had harbored visions of befriending Prince Joffrey without his older siblings to make the Prince uncomfortable. But the Prince was four years older and his father oft said that boys grow in closeness as the age between them diminishes overtime, and the younger Prince Tommen was quick to seek Bran's company, when the Queen allowed it.

 

Princess Myrcella was odd. Sweet and fair but she smelt like dreams; and not pleasant ones, but dreams of melting snow that curdled into blood yet flowed in torrents southward nonetheless and threatened to sweep a mountain out to sea, until Bran himself picked up a shield of fragrant oak and built a dam to hold back the foul pool.

 

He did not share that dream with any of party, lest they think him mad or an abomination in the eyes of the gods, Old and New.

* * *

 

**Sansa Stark**

 

 

It had certainly started off as the best of times. How many other girls – well, a woman, almost – her own age rode across Westeros in a wheelhouse as a guest of the Queen of Westeros! And Princess Myrcella. Treated as almost a royal herself in the eyes of the handmaidens and retinue. Oh, she was always kept busy, and her father had warned her to suffer no illusions that she would be required to accompany the Queen, to listen as if she were her own mother, and like as not be kept moving as if on heated coals once they arrived in King's Landing, even if her own Lord Father were Hand of the King. And she had had to swear that she would not allow herself to make foolish promises, beholding him nor any Stark as if she were their own lady quite yet and not his daughter because of flowered words about her betrothal as Westeros's next Queen... but the exchange was well worth it. For she would be one day Queen – a Queen at the side of a most handsome King!

 

They had even seen a tourney, at a bustling place of an unimaginable size called Lord Harroway's Town – called Harroway for those worldly enough to know – where a great audience had been put together and where all cried amazement at the radiance of the royal ladies. And to think that many – even the handmaidens – thought it to be a tiny occasion, hardly even worth mentioning. What splendor and wealth and size must there be in the South for all of this but to be as if a children's game?

 

She was kept away from Bran, or so it seemed. But she did not want the Queen to think her ungrateful for her generoristy or that she was bored with so magnificent a wheelhouse and such elegant conversations, and so he laughed at her japes and endured her separation from Lady as the Queen made it quite plain there was no place for such in the refinement of the wheelhouse. But the King had laughed and said he would look after her beautiful wolf for there was nothing he would not do for House Stark and she could not help but blush at this and think to herself that though the King had lost his outward beauty he was truly a most valiant King.

 

Prince Joffrey of course did not ride with them, but on his own with naught but his own sworn shield to accompany him and this was a disappointment for Sansa had harbored visions of riding along with her betrothed without her older siblings to embarrass her in front of the Prince and make him, so ever gallant, uncomfortable on her behalf. But the Prince was four years older and his father oft said that boys take longer than girls to grow interested in courtship so she would accept his compliments and polite inquiries with grace and love him from afar. Prince Tommen was odd. Though she would never say so for he was a sweet boy but he would never be the Knight that Joffrey would one day become.

 

Princess Myrcella, on the other hand, was not odd at all. Sweet and fair she was a perfect lady, and Sansa could not wait to be her good-sister and hope that Joffrey and Myrcella's own husband – whoever he might be – would protect them from ever having to see so much as a droplet of blood spilt in malice.

 

She did not share that dream with any of party, lest they think her terribly presumptuous and silly, and unworthy of marriage into the royal family in the eyes of the gods, Old and New.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Well, I for one enjoyed this. I suspect the style of the Bran/Sansa bit will annoy some, but I enjoyed writing it and it's not the sort of thing one does routinely. Hopefully enough of you enjoy it that it comes out a wash. Least it's short and it's actually quite meaty.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 

 

**Robb Stark**

 

 

He had assumed that he knew all there was to know about being a Lord.

 

Well... mayhap not _everything._ Even father had from time to time prowled the halls of Winterfell with a scowl as he considered his various options regarding some crisis or other. But such things were uncommon and Robb has been raised from birth to one day be The Stark in Winterfell, unlike his father who had had to learn as he had went along.

 

He could not have been more wrong.

 

Since the King had left, he no longer had time to spend endlessly in the tiltyard with Theon and Jon, nor hunting or simply riding through the Wolfswood when the weather was good and he had the time and inclination. Nor even time for his usual schedule of lessons with Maester Luwin, which his father was usually so strict to enforce he maintained. Now his waking hours were spend indoors, learning more in three months than he had imagined possible. Even his time outdoors was purely practical: martial lessons always directly from Roderick Cassal and without Jon or Theon – no japes or old stories. And every evening ended with time in the Godswood, his father silently at his side as they would go and walk or stand beneath the Heart tree – a place his father had always said was perfect when one had to consider a difficult decision and needed a place where one could not delude oneself into an easy choice.

 

All his waking hours in the past three months it seemed had been spent at his fathers side., He sat and listened to the petitioners when they came to Winterfell, whether seeking aid of some sort or justice of another. Afterward and in private, his father would go into detail, making sure Robb understood why the decisions were what they were and how he might do thinks similar or different. At other times, his father and the maester had questioned him endlessly: what agreements existed that the Starks had to maintain and honor, which of the various noble houses had to be kept merely at a distance and which had to be kept from one anothers' throats. There would be no further discussion about territorial disputes along the shores of the Long Lake. The Hill Clans would not tolerate being subordinated in wartime to one another. And it was one thing to know that in the main the Glovers and the Umbers were constantly involved in petty feuds – but quite another to be expected to remember who had what right to the best fisheries in the Bay of Ice, once the sea began to freeze and they competed for the best spot... and demanded Winterfell side in their own favor.

 

His father had drilled him day in and out, but when he had finally left for White Harbor with Jory Cassel and a small retinue mostly of guards but with a scattering of scribes and servants, he had told Robb that he was proud of his abilities and learning and that he would be a fine lord. And that being the case he should not be too proud but seek help from Maester Luwin or Vayon Poole, Winterfell's Steward.

 

And he had, and in truth it was not until today's raven that frustration had threatened to turn to wroth.

 

“He may be my future good-father, but the history between our families is not a secret; I cannot just open my gates to forty armed men of another house! My father will arrive at the capital and be on the next ship bound homeward, and I'll be sent to the wall, like as not!”

 

“Come now, Robb – focus on the issue at hand, not imagined disasters,” Maester Luwin answered in his soft, stern way; sitting up in his chair within the comfort of the Maester's Turret while Robb paced angrily before him, turning in tight circles to avoid tripping over any of the trinkets that filled the space.

 

“Can we send them back?” Robb asked, voice hopeful but skeptical.

 

“No.” Luwin replied immediately. “Not without offering grave insult. Which we ought not to do.”

 

“Obviously,” Robb grumbled. “And likewise, mine father could not have objected for the same reason.”

 

Luwin nodded. “By the laws of men, they belong to your betrothed, even if they are intended for your use; your father could not have demanded Lord Bolton  _reduce_ his daughter's dowry. So you are stuck with them like a bad penny. So what are you to do?”

 

“I cannot keep them in the Keep without looking like a weakling and an idiot,” Robb replied, taking his time to think his response through carefully. “And even if I could, it would not be wise. Winterfell must be manned by Stark men.”

 

“Very good. And what does the timing of the letter tell us?”

 

Robb walked to the maester's desk, seeking permission nonetheless before picking up the piece of parchment. “Lord Bolton waited until my father had arrived at White Harbor before sending this letter, so his talk about the soldiers bearing a Nameday gift from his daughter is a cover.”

 

“Though certainly they do that as well. Very good. So he is testing you.”

 

“A test! And how am I to pass?”

 

Here, the old maester's eyes sparkled with amusement. “By taking the same steps every lord does when confronted by this very problem.”

 

“You will welcome the Bolton men, wish them well, and repeat Lord Bolton's own words back to them: about how fortuitous there presence is to arrive so soon, because you share Lord Bolton's every wish that they should integrate themselves amongst your men now, the opportunity being so happily upon us.”

 

“Then, you organize them into a company or a watch or a banner or a guard or an order or a guild. The histories are littered with such groups and you can simply resurrect one as necessary, or cut from whole cloth if none quite suffices. It is of little matter. You give them a barracks in Wintertown that is empty during the Summer and you double their number, filling the ranks of this new group with a Stark man for every Bolton.”

 

Robb nodded, following along easily enough.

 

“ _Then,_ with all honors properly received, you provide them with something to do. Something not too close to Winterfell and something important enough that Lord Bolton cannot claim his men are doing naught and you have dishonored him.”

 

“So no digging privies along the Kingsroad.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

“And we have work like that just lying around, as easy to pick up off the ground as powdered snow?”

 

“Of course. There are never enough men. There are always bandits. Or wolves. Or Wildlings. Or pirates. That is no trouble at all. And then by the time your betrothed arrives in Winterfell two years from now the group is well established and mayhap performing a useful task and enjoying a sustenance of Stark recruits, and then a token number of the Bolton men who have most earned your trust will be promoted to positions within the keep as custom dictates your lady wife's family be so honored.”  
  
“And Lord Bolton will not see precisely what we are doing? It seems...too easy.”

 

“Oh, he will see it immediately. But as it's a trick he and every other lord has done a time or two himself, likely as not to his own good-father – just as I once advised your own father regarding your grandfather, Lord Tully – he will say naught against it and you will have shown yourself capable of not surrendering your own holdfast.”

 

“Hardly a high bar, I would have thought.”

 

“Sometimes, we must prove we can jump the low bar before setting our sights to on higher ones.”

 

Robb sighed. “It is not so cut-and-dry and honorable as I had thought it would be.”  
  


“That is the first true lesson of lordship, Robb.”

 

And so as the letter had promised soon enough the men-at-arms had arrived – Bolton men now pledged to Robb. And just as truly they brought along with them a beautiful Rill Courser of two years and a letter from his betrothed, saying that she begged forgiveness for her presumptuousness but her aunt's stables had a horse she had thought would be perfect for him, and she had wanted it sent to him early to ensure it arrived before his name day. That she begged his leave to write again soon.” Something else to worry about, but mayhap not quite so unpleasant as forty armed men in need of food, shelter, and a strong washing.

 

“I have moved them into the town barracks, as we decided.” Rodrick Cassel reported, just as Jon had arrived. “And I have picked out forty of our own men who will join them as... do we have a name yet, my Lord?”

 

“Aye,” Robb said, sounding slightly bashful. “The Wolf Watch-”

 

“Bloody stupid name that, my Lord,” Jon interjected with a small smirk.

 

Robb snickered. “You should have seen the names in the book Master Luwin gave me recording the history of these sorts of enterprises. Dreadful, every single one! The higher the Lord the more outrageous the names he chose.” He grinned. “But, this tale improves. I needed a Sigil for the Watch, one that incorporates something form both the Boltons and the Starks.”

 

“Two red wolf eyes, on an ice-white field.”

 

Jon paused, then looked at Robb, appalled. “You've made a coat of arms of  _Ghost!?_ ”

 

“Have I? And here I thought I was simply combining the Stark symbol with a Bolton color. Funny, how it turned out.”

 

“I suppose as it's Ghost, I ought to make his master as one of the two Officers-of-the-watch, wouldn't you say?”

 

“Robb, what...”

 

“You've been planning on leaving Winterfell,” Robb cut in, suddenly sounding very serious. “I know you – I can tell your moods – don't look at me like that.”

 

“Your lady mother... she will not like this.”

 

“My lady mother left not a week after my father, to Riverrun to visit my grandfather and then on to The Vale – by the time she is next within a dozen leagues of Winterfell, it will be a done deal and I shall have a man I can trust in this bloody awful experiment with an equally bloody awful name.”

 

Jon nodded, and only Jon could manage to look so touched – though he would never say so aloud, least not to Robb – while still looking so earnestly serious!

 

“And you won't be here anyway, so only I shall earn her wrath” Robb continued, a touch too cheerful. “You wanted to go North, and that is where I am sending you. Day after day I get ravens from Greatjon Umber, telling of a torrent of Wildlings that are pouring south, screaming about death that rides for the wall.” Robb rolled his eyes at that.

 

“Wildlings fleeing a war amongst themselves is not our concern, save that it bleeds into our lands. Go up north, knock your sword around a bit, then come back here and help me run Winterfell!”

 

“Officer-of-the-watch,” Jon whispered. “It is still a stupid name though.”

 

“Well it's got a stupid second-in-command, so it suits,” Robb japed back.

 

“When do we go north?” Jon asked after another moment.

 

“In a fortnight, mayhap two – we _do_ actually want to integrate the men somewhat, and I will have to properly appoint one of Lord Bolton's as your fellow. I have written to Lord Cerwyn if he might have any relation fit for the Captaincy, we will have to wait for him as well.”

 

“I... was not going to go to the wall,” Jon said, unhearing of Robb's explanation of further events.

 

Robb gave him a look.

 

“Not right away, at any rate.” He amended. “Father said that when he next came home, either for your wedding or before, that we would speak and that he would tell me about my mother. That joining the Night's Watch was an honorable decision but one not to be made lightly, and that I should not join if I was certain that nothing he said would make me regret doing so. I intend to wait for that, at least.”

 

Robb smiled. “Good. And you know there will always be a place for you at Winterfell.”

 

“Our father said the same,” he said in lieu of agreement, but Robb let it pass for the time being.

 

Although Winterfell was still too busy to do all that needed doing – now he understood why the Broken Tower remained so, there was never enough time to worry about needs so to worry about anything else. But even though Robb had never had so full a day, it felt quieter now; the hall, the keep, the Godswood - too large and hollow for those left inside it, with only himself and Arya and Rickon and Theon left. Rickon had not understood why half the family were now absent and though he missed Ned and Sansa and Bran and Jon, he took his mother's leaving exceptionally poorly so as to be nigh uncontrollable thereafter. Though Robb tried his utmost to ensure some time was spent with him even on the busiest days and even Arya did her best, shining in her role as matron of Winterfell all while insisting she was no such thing... Rickon was fast becoming untenable, a fact not helped by his direwolf Shaggydog being just as wild. Hopefully his lady mother would not delay too long in the south.

 

Arya had of course been saddened to see Jon depart but she had told him she was in truth thrilled to seem in what she termed his rightful position, leading a Stark force and not doing something stupid like going to the Wall. She had asked if she could in fact come with him and he had laughed and said not this this time, but mayhap one day. Then Jon had given their youngest sister a sword, a light and narrow blade that was inspired by an make of epee from Bravos. Robb had given Jon a shrewd look, realizing that it had in fact been intended as a parting gift now given merely as a sign of brotherly affection. But Arya need not know about that and she had been delighted, begging Robb for lessons. At length – and in part in gratitude for how helpful she had proven to be, he had promised that if she would apply herself at least somewhat to her lessons – if for no other reason than to avoid catastrophe when their lady mother returned – then he would send a raven to Bear Island and see if they could spare an instructor better suited for teaching a woman how to fight.

 

She had pulled a face at that but he had invoked Jon's name and how Jon knew how to do his duty and she had accepted his proposition with only a fraction of her normal surliness at being forced to spend time in the Septa's lessons.

 

The demands on Robb as The Stark of Winterfell never let up: one day it was concerns from the village elder of an outlying hamlet about spoilage in their granary, the next he had to play host for the Tyrion Lanniester, the Lannister Dwarf, or Imp has he was known behind his back. Tyrion had remained when the royal party returned southward so that he might see the wall and, if he were to be believed, make his way through every wench from the Wall to Rosby without a familial eye to keep him in check. Robb was uncertain how true that mayhap have been, but clearly he was in no hurry to return to the capital.

 

“You father heads to a wretched place,” he had slurred cheerfully into his cups on the third and final night of his stay in Winterfell. “But then, I am less than half the man your father is, so mayhap he will find the city to his liking. Of course, our King is _twice_ as much man these days of your Lord Father, and that hasn't done him a lick of good – though my sister is like to blame for some of that. Do you have any more wine, Stark? Robb. Lord Stark.”

 

It had been an experience, at any rate.

 

Though even so he had not expected to come into the Great Hall to break his fast one morning before his siblings awoke, to find Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin, and Roderick Cassel already waiting upon him, each looking equally grim.

 

“Has someone died,” he asked in jest, his wits not yet fully awake so early in the day, then took a second look at their faces. “Oh hell, what happened? News from the Riverlands, King's Landing?” He feared the worst.

 

“A raven from House Flint at Flint's Finger, Lord Robb.” Maester Luwin supplied.

 

“From... oh,” relief overtook him. Whatever misfortune had occurred, it had not hit his own family; save mayhap his own father – for he could not recall – no Stark in living memory had been any closer to Flint's Finger than The Kingsroad, many days ride away through hard land even then.

 

“Flint riders along the coast have found signs of logging. Professional work too, large trees in large quantities. The Iron Islands are rebuilding.”

 

“Aye,” Robb said, serious. Every since Theon's arrival at Winterfell, though he thought of him as a brother, his father had made very clear how the Ironborn lived and died, and how they had for centuries plagued the North: even when not reiving nor raiding they used the sheer size of the north as a weapon against it, knowing that the vast forests that hugged the western shoreline could never be watched closely enough to prevent the Ironborn from taking what they pleased.

 

“I take it no Ironborn were captured,” Robb said at last.

 

“No. But the signs are unmistakable.”

 

He nodded.

 

“We'll send ravens to every holdfast and fishing village along the Sunset Sea,” Robb spoke aloud. “And order a vigilant and increased watch – though I've no doubts the Lords along the coast will be doing that on their own. We will not send our men from Winterfell unless we are asked to do so – a few dozen men at any given point along the coast is a fool's errand.”

 

Nobody disagreed. “One day, Theon will be Lord of the Iron Islands and mayhap The North will have a friend in Pyke,” the Maester Luwin said instead. “But, if Theon is one day to be a Lord and you are to have any hope he might turn the reiver who covet your shorelines into honest mariners, he will need to know how to sail himself.

 

Robb wanted to argue with that – Winterfell was lonely enough and Rickon would differentiate even less than he, seeing only another brother departing. But...

 

“Aye, you're right.” He said instead. “What do you... White Harbor, perhaps? It would be better if he learnt in the east, would it not.”

 

“A wise choice.”

 

Another thought occurred to him. “And I will write to my grandfather as well as his Bannerman, Lord Mallister at Seaguard. We lack warships and shipwrights particularly on the western coasts. If the Ironborn attack before Theon takes his Lordship, then we are ravaged.”

 

He did his best to look fierce and defiant.

“I will never allow the sea to come to Winterfell.”

 

But many moons passed without major incident; his brother by blood in the north and his brother by choice in the east. Robb himself maintained one eye looking west.

 

Then like a storm that has spent too long gathering strength in the Narrow Sea, the ravens came in a great tempest one after another, every one from the south, and every one bearing worse tidings than the one before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vayon Poole stays in Winterfell, as he was seen as more needed to assist Robb than Ned, and Jeyne never left with Sansa. The downside of course is that Ned has a less experienced man filling the same slot for himself in King's Landing, and it's not like the top man for the job was able to overcome the odds last time round...
> 
> On another point, nations without a strong maritime tradition since time immemorial have discovered that it's one thing (one very tempting and expensive thing, usually) to pour coin into buying shipwrights and ship designs from maritime powers... it's quite another to develop a native naval tradition to make them worth anything useful in an actual engagement.
> 
> With that in mind, we are going to make the daring assumption that the lack of a Northern fleet in the Sunset sea is due to a nonexistent merchant fleet, save local fisherman and maybe a whaling ship or two based out of the coast 'ports'. Combined with the fact that there for all intents and purposes there are no foreign fleets that could reach them...
> 
> It is a question of economies, not a decision based entirely on a historical tragedy.
> 
> But Robb responds in a natural way and Luwin, Cassel, and Poole, not having any experience whatsoever in naval theory, but knowing they don't like the idea of Ironborn raiding northern shores any more than Robb, see no particular reason to object.


	6. An Issue Uncovered (Eddard Stark)

**Chapter 6**

 

**Eddard Stark**

 

 

Gods, but he hated King's Landing.

 

Lord Manderly had prepared a ship especially for his party to sail from White Harbor – the fastest in his fleet, he had so claimed with great pomp and pride. A noble gesture from a loyal bannerman, but mayhap a touch misplaced – for Ned would not have minded a few days more upon the seas before he reached the hated city. Even the water was worse, he reflected sourly; the salty breezes of the open sea giving way to the dank and stagnant waters in the dockyards of Blackwater Bay, where the effluvium of one hundred thousand souls mingled with the disposal of the tanneries, the fisherman, and even the butcher's offal that was not considered safe for even the most desperate and ravenous of smallfolk to consume.

 

Little improved when he arrived onto dry land. The King had arranged a grand tourney for his arrival, and 'twas clear that both Bran and Sansa were enthralled, beaming with pride as the King honored their father before all others in the Kingdoms. But his son and daughter did not realize the dangers such an act opened unto them, nor the expense such frivolities would cost the crown – a crown he was now responsible for ensuring ran with reason and constraint.

 

“Cheer up, Ned!” The King said with a friendly if boisterous shove to the arm from atop the King's platform midway through the jousts. “You've been up in your frozen woods for so long you've forgotten what a good tourney looks like!”

 

He leaned over, as if sharing some great secret. “I'm not supposed to bet on tourneys these days, what with being King and all, but I gave your boy a dozen dragons and told him to put the lot of it on the Knight of his choice. Takes me back to watching the tilts at Gulltown, so it does!”

 

Ned frowned, but said nothing. “Aye, Your Grace – I recall them well.”

 

“What was that lass's name – was a serving girl for Lord Royce, teats like a pregnant sow but a face you could go to war for. Ah but I recall her fondly, if not her name – believe you me!”

 

And so on, the whole tournament as such, Robert determined to recall ever amorous adventure he could from their time together in The Vale while the Queen sat by in stony silence, watching as if not at all aware of her husband's loud and rasping whispers. Sansa, his sweet daughter and now among the Queen's ladies so close it was unquestionable she did not hear even with the noise in the crowd, was bright red in the cheeks and on the neck, though she later blamed it on the southern heat she was as of yet still unsuited to.

 

“Bran!” The King cried out between the jousts. “Come up here, lad – be your father's son for a bit and not my squire.” Bran scrambled up towards the top of the box, giving Ned a respectful nod and a small smile though they betrayed his true mirth, before turning to the King.

 

“Enjoying yourself, are you?”  
  


“Yes, Your Grace. Very much.”

 

“Who did you put coin on then.”

 

Bran's eyes flickered towards his father, knowing he would not approved. But Ned knew the truth and so tried to say as much to Bran without words.

 

“Your brother Lord Renly, Your Grace.”

 

“Ha! A good lad, your son, Ned.”

 

Renly however did not win, being unseated not three jousts later by Sandor Clegane, Prince Joffrey's sworn shield, known throughout the city as “The Hound”. Bran did not lose heart though, for it was not his coin and in by any chance, Sandor Clegane won the tourney in whole, though in the final joust Ser Loras Tyrell handed Sandor the match, in gratitude for saving his life when the elder Clegane, Gregor, known as The Mountain, had been unseated by Ser Loras earlier, due to a mishap in the horses that so enraged him he had sought to kill his opponent.

 

Needless to say, Ned was grateful when the tourney came to an end.

 

Save for what scarce time Ned was able to spend with his son and daughter – and it was scarce indeed, for Cersei had taken Sansa into her own household, and Ned could think of no way to request Sansa be returned unto him without so dishonoring the Queen. He had spoken to Sansa at length and she had claimed she was happy, though her eyes betrayed her when she said she had no qualm with Lady being kept in the kennels. Ned knew in truth that she had to hold her tongue – even to him, her Lord father – for if she were one day to be the Queen she could not be seen to stand in opposition to Queen Cersei or Prince Joffrey, on any matter. It pained his heart nonetheless and he made note to ask the Gods to grant Sansa strength every eve in the Keep's Godswood, though its Heart tree were oak and not Weirwood as would have been proper.

 

Bran at least seemed truly happy, and for that Ned was grateful. He had worried that Bran would be treated as something of a fool to be tolerated by the squires of other Knights. Though he was naught of the sort – he was a lad as sharp as he was kind – he was less aware of when he was exhibiting his northern sensibilities and carried with him an open sense of awe compared to his elder sister, and Ned knew with some experience how southerners were wont to treat northerners who appeared to be so starry-eyed. Squiring for the King would only add to their envy – especially, Ned was reluctant to admit – when the King desired to treat Bran as if he were but a younger Ned, while Bran's fellows worked themselves to the bone.

 

Ser Barristan Selmy, mayhap noticing Ned's concern on this matter his ownself though Ned said naught about it, or else simply recognizing an obvious truth, had made a suggestion to the King in Ned's presence, remarking that Ser Arys Oakhart of the Kingsguard was one day without a squire. His former - a cousin to Lord Hunter – had been recalled homeward, and did the King wish to put forth a name himself? Lord Tarly's younger son looked like a promising-

 

“Bugger that,” King Robert had roared. “I wouldn't honor a Tarly to hold my pissing pot.”

 

“No,” the King had simply declared, giving his beard a scratch. “Only one option, I think. Do not take offense, Ned, but I can make do with the usual lot of idiots. If any one is to be honored here, it'll be your son, not a stinking louse-ridden butchering ghoul of a Tarly.”

 

“I am honored, Your Grace,” Ned had said, somewhat guiltily. Bran had been upset at first but when his regimen had changed from refilling the next cup to more time in the stables and the barracks and being accepted amongst the other squires, he too seemed happier: if somewhat shamefacedly. And Ser Oakhart was as good a knight as any; honest and thoughtful, as good a master for his son as he could have hoped for. He allowed Bran to keep Summer close, save for when his duties required otherwise, which Ned understood and so took no issue with.

 

But the rest... the small council with its unashamed and endless plotting and riddles within riddles, the petitions by Lordly houses for some small honor that might put them a hair's breadth above a rival family, the constant jostling and schemes he could have done well without!

 

And, pained as he was to say, the King himself was of little use in matters of state. He attended not one small council meeting in ten, always explaining it away with a loud, hollow laugh and a declaration that he had full faith in  _ Good old Ned! _ But when Ned himself came to the King and began to speak of trade or ship or the city's granaries or guilds or gold, he would quick become irritable.

 

“Court and Council are finished for the day, I did not ask for your presence to talk about such nonsense,” the King grumbled with a wave of his hand as if swatting away an irritant. 

 

“If I wanted to count coppers I would have summoned that shit, Littlefinger. And I get a bellyful in both ears every time I sit on that pile of swords: We need more cloaks in Rosby, Your Grace; Might Lannisport have another privilege, Your Grace; can I lick your royal arse, Your Grace.”

 

“Come off it, man! You're here! That's what matters, you and I together again, like old time's sake.” Robert had clapped his knee at that, as if telling some great jape. “How's your son doing then, you must have had a raven by now.”

 

“Robb seems well enough, your grace. And Maester Luwin confirms that he has a steady head for ruling, if he is still from time to time feeling his footing.”

 

Robert snorted. “Aye, well if he ever finds it have him write me, I still haven't a clue if you took the word of Queen Nag for it. Ned, but if Lyanna were here...”

 

“-Your Grace, the issue of the ships cannot wait any longer,” Ned interrupted with a wince.

 

“Oh hell!” Robert groused. “Fine, fine, let's talk about the ships. Go ahead and dismiss my brother – I gave him his chance to be Hand and what does he do? Buggers off to hide in Swann's castle. Knew he was a poor choice for it, probably discovered nobody cared to listen to a word he had to say and decided to have a nice sulk.”

 

Ned frowned, though in truth he was in agreement with King Robert to some extent, as it did appear Stannis had abandoned his post at the most inopportune of times. Which while that did not fit with what Ned knew of the man who had held Storm's End against siege and unspeakable hardship and famine, men changed over the seasons. And not one of his ravens had yet been answered.

 

“Even so, Your Grace. Do you not find it odd that the fleet is so dispersed? But a third of the royal fleet sits in the Blackwater – the rest has been divvied up, spread from Driftmark and across the islands of the Bay – though not at Dragonstone any longer, curious enough. And with a large contingent at Tarth and smaller numbers at almost every port through the Stormlands. Lord Manderly writes to inform the that a force of a four galleys has even shown up at White Harbor, with a writ to remain in port for the time being until revoked. You do not know what your brother planned?”

 

“Not the foggiest,” the King replied. “I can kill any army on land but I always left the fleet to my younger brother – for all that good it did me against the dragon spawn. Which he has let escape now a second time! I ought to summon him back to King's Landing if only to behead him for that.”

 

“I know nothing of ships either,” Ned interjected, eager to move past the topic of assassinating Targaryen babes. “What little fleet I overlord is controlled by the Manderlys, and I do not bother myself in the affair for they are competent in it without my interference.” 

 

Ned paused, “Mayhap in peacetime a fleet is better kept apart lest its logistics take too much a strain. Is a fleet so consumptious as an army that it is foolish to concentrate it when not in battle? Or with such vast areas to protect, mayhap it is the only way to combat piracy with any success.” He considered that. “Even so, by my take of the letter even Lord Manderly found it strange, and like I said he is well versed on such things.”

 

“Leave them where they are for the nonce,” the King said with a sigh. “They aren't causing any trouble and we've got enough troubles without worrying about bloody ships that have done naught to bother us thus far. Now no more talk of it! Do you recall our first trip up to the Eyrie? I thought Jon would kill us if we complained about the climb again. And that mountain girl who led the asses. Well let me tell you...”

 

Though while Lord Manderly's letter was puzzling, it was the letter from his lady wife many moons later that filled him with foreboding. He and Cat had plotted a solid course of action, realizing that more must be known than Lysa Arryn had been willing to send by raven. And so Cat was to go first to Riverrun to visit her Lord father, visiting the ailing Hoster Tully and alerting her brother Edmure, acting as Lord in their father's sickness, that something ill was underfoot in the capital, lest Lysa had not warned her estranged father. Afterward, having making a trip she had in truth intended to make for quite some time and while having the pretense to outside ears that it was but a simple familial reunion, she was to travel to the Eyrie and hear Lysa's story in full. At which point she herself would return to Winterfell as if nothing were amiss, while a trusted courier in her retinue would ride south to King's Landing, delivering whatever ill news was discovered to Ned, directly.

 

The plan was sound, but the news he now received was troubling. Lysa had revealed to Cat that her source for the information of her husband's death was none other than their childhood friend, Lord Petyr Baelish. He had reported unto Lysa that he could not tell her the issue in its detail – his head and hers be on it should he do so – but that Jon Arryn had stumbled across a secret plot that would ruin the Lannisters had it become public knowledge. Had in fact discovered it with Stannis Baratheon, who Ned of course knew now had himself fled the capital not long after Lord Arryn's death, despite being granted his most coveted desire. It was a grim picture forming, indeed.

 

His lady wife spoke well of Baelish's character, and so despite his own impressions from his time in the small council as well as the ruinous familial history with the man, he summoned Baelish to a private audience.

 

“You do realize, my Lord Hand, that by doing so you have alerted everyone from The Spider to the lowest gossip at market that you have something of import to pass on to me?” Lord Baelish had said in leiu of an introduction as he entered Ned's chambers in the Tower of The Hand.  
  
“I have received a letter from my lady wife,” he said, knowing well from small council that the best way to address the man was plainly and to the point. “She has been to The Vale, and spoken to her widowed sister.” 

 

“I see,” Baelish replied, suddenly the smile gone, face earnest and serious. “You wish to know about who poisoned Jon Arryn, and why?”

 

“I do,” Ned said, expression grin and voice low. “But mayhap also why if you know such, why you have sat upon it and not brought it to the King, who loved Jon Arryn like his own father. And who would demand rightful justice.”

 

“My Lord Hand,” Baelish replied, tone perfectly proper. “If I reported what I knew to the King, the King would have my head for the audacity of it. Or would the Queen. Or would Lord Tywin. Or would a score of others.” He shook his head ruefully. “I want justice every bit as much as you, and though I know you have reason to despise me for the folly of my youth, I urge your patience with me on this matter.”

 

“Go on then,” Ned grumbled, full of impatience.

 

Lord Baelish nodded. “Our King is an amorous man, as I've now doubt you've long known – he has bastards in six of the seven Kingdoms, and no doubt after his most recent travels in a few months it will be an even seven.”

 

He hurried along as Ned did not respond to the jape. “Lord Stannis and Lord Arryn had a book of the various noble bloodlines, though I urge you not to seek it out, as it is possessed by the Grandmaester and he is every inch Tywin Lannister's man. But the King has a bastard on the Street of Steel, who serves as an apprentice to a blacksmith there. His name is Gendry. Go look at him.  _ Look  _ at him. Then ask any of the Vale Lords to describe Mya Stone, or any of the Storm Lords to picture Edric Storm. The Dorne of Cassana Sand and The Riverlands of Bella Waters. Robert Hill. Robert Flowers. Another Robert Flowers.  _ And then look at the King's named children. _ ”

 

“You are suggesting-”

 

“I suggest nothing, my Lord Hand, absolutely nothing at all. I am merely asking you to considering taking a turn about the city, and mayhap an interesting conversation piece for discussion amongst the other lords. Nothing else. I beg you, keep mine own name out of it.”

 

He had done so, and even without the Grandmaester's book it was obvious what Lord Baelish was alluding to – so obvious it was but amazing that nobody had come across it before. Unless those that had also had been poisoned into an early grave...

 

The King had hair of black and eyes of blue. As did his bastard in the Storm Lands. And in the Vale. And in The Reach. And in Dorne, where the look of the Andals and the First Men were notorious for leaving little imprint on its people whenever they entered the blood. Every child begotten from Baratheon seed showed the same signs, no matter the mother. As, on reflection, so did Lords Renly and Stannis, and from what was said – for he had never seen her – Stannis's daughter as well.

 

But the King's named children: Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, took after their mother with naught a single trace of the Baratheon look. 

 

It was information that could start a war; it was certainly information that Tywin Lannister would poison a man for possessing.

 

But even so, though he could not sit upon this information as if it were naught, nor could he act upon it with little more than the gossip regarding bastards – most of whom had never been claimed – and the word... no, not the word, the mere insinuation, of Lord Baelish. Afterall, his own Robb took more after his own mother, while Jon...

 

He considered at length and concluded to write to Stannis, alerting him that he knew of the grand issue and that he demand Stannis respond to the summons or else be properly banished, so important was this matter. Like his lady wife, he did not trust this information by raven, especially as all use of the ravens was, in practice, under the authority of the Grandmaester, who he could not now rely upon.

 

And so he sent a man from Winterfell on a fast horse and a writ by Order of the Hand demanding every inn offer him a fresh mount so he might most rapidly reach Stonehelm. And not even a moon later this time, Lord Stannis wrote back.

 

And so it was that one morning Ned broke his fast alone, having received the King's reluctant permission to meet his absent brother for matters of state at Bronzegate, a keep in the Stormlands not terribly far from the boundary of the royal demesne of The Crownlands, and quickly reached by The Kingsroad, which ran well and true so far south.

* * *

 

 

** Petyr Baelish **

 

Ah it had taken the better part of a lifetime, granted, but at long last Stark would get his. And then he, Petyr Baelish,  _ Littlefinger,  _ would get his too... though his was like to be a damn sight more enjoyable, he chuckled silently to himself. He would no doubt be rewarded for his news, if only to ensure he stayed bought. Mayhap Harrenhall – Lady Whent wasn't getting any younger, the old crone. That would be something, to have the largest castle in Tully lands under his control. Lysa would do anything for him – would and had done so even before she'd become an utter lunatic. And Cat... well, Cat would be a widow in need of comfort, no doubt, from an old friend who could be trusted, someone who would be strong so that she might show a moment to express a woman's weakness.

 

Yes, this would work out well enough. Not only would Jon Arryn not do anything so utterly stupid as to wreck the status quo of the Seven Kingdoms – and Baelish's not insubstantial (if illicit) monetary holdings therein, but neither would Ned Stark. And Ned Stark would be dead, gruesomely if he had any say but he was willing to not be picky on this matter; and Petyr would get a big castle, the dead man's wife... one day Paramountcy over one region or another – it mattered little which. And mayhap that was a bold vision indeed, naught but a fool's dream: but if he had not sought out big dreams and grasped them for all he was worth, he'd still be scrubbing a living on some Godsforesaken rocks at the end of The Vale. 

 

“Your Highness,” he called out as he stepped out from behind the courtyard's fountain where he had been tarrying, calling out as the Queen passed. “I beg a moment of your time, I have grave news regarding a threat against your household.”

 

The Queen paused, turning and looking at him as if he were some particularly foul and malodorous vagrant. He smiled – she would one day get hers; for all her beauty the Queen thought herself just as quick and clever, when in truth she was less subtle than Ned Stark, bumbling around the Street of Steel and asking Lords about royal bastards.

 

“Stay there,” she called out to her guards at last. “Speak.”

 

Petyr bowed low – the Queen liked that sort of thing, fool that she was, caring only about appearance. “Lord Stark rides south,” he said, inflecting his voice with concern to hide his glee. “My sources inform me he rides to the Stormlands to meet with Lord Stannis, to concoct a most vicious plot against you.”

 

He had her. Though she continued to look at him with feigned disinterest, he had caught the flash in the eyes, the twitch of a scowl turned to panic that then removed itself with nary a trace had he not caught it right away.

 

“Go on then,” she said, twirling one hand indicating that he should speak quickly lest she lose interest. Ha! That was a jape, indeed!

 

“It seems they have come up with a most wicked lie, My Queen, denying the legitimacy of the royal children. No doubt Stannis covets the throne for himself.”

 

“Outrageous!” Cersei screamed, then caught herself, her eyes flickering to her guards. She seemed grateful that it was but sworn Lannister men and not Stark's own daughter with them, or any other ladies; though unknown to her Petyr had made sure that he did not 'surprise' the Queen when there were other witnesses about.

 

“Have you told the King about... about this abominable lie,” She continued, voice more hushed.  


Petyr shook his head. “I did not know how to tell the King that his oldest friend betrayed him, and in fact hoped that by telling you I might consider myself finished with this matter, and you might best approach him,” he said silkily.

 

“Of course, Lord Baelish, and The King thanks you for your diligence,” Cersei replied, and he hid a smile at how hard she fought to contain herself from lashing out. “I suppose... I suppose such loyalty deserves a boon. Name what you desire and I shall make sure The King knows who his most loyal servant is.”

 

“I am sure Your Highness will think of something apt,” Petyr said instead, enjoying this game very much, and even he could not prevent the satisfaction from escaping betwixt his lips. “For myself, it is enough to share what knowledge I have, for that is where true power comes from.”

 

“No,  _ Littlefinger _ ,” the queen sneered. “Power comes from wielding arms and keeps and ships. Power comes from the coin to hire spies and sellswords. Power comes from the power to determine life and death.”

 

Petyr bowed low again – the ones prone to inopportune rantings truly were the worst. “If you say so, My Queen.”

 

“I do say so. Guards!” The men behind her snapped to attention. “Kill Lord Baelish.”

 

He smiled at her jape, which quickly turned to annoyance when the oafs took her at her words and seized him, locking his arms powerlessly behind his own back while a shortsword was at a moment pressed upon his throat.

 

“You have made your point, My Queen,” and seven hells his voice wavered. He would have to work on that.

 

“No, I haven't. Not yet,” she smirked. And then great pain and a flash of light like one hundred suns and a scream that only came out as a gurgle. Then darkness and silence. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that went well for everyone involved!


	7. A Plot Committed (Lannisters)

**Chapter 7**

 

**Cersei Lannister**

 

 

It wasn't fair, and never had she been more furious. Not at King Aerys for refusing her, nor Prince Rhaegar for humiliating her for Lyanna Stark. Not even for the disgusting, deformed _thing_ that claimed to be her brother.

 

The Lion did not show her belly to anyone; not a wolf, not a stag, and certainly not a jumped up little mockingbird that demanded the Lion offer up her den. The Lion did not ask permission to show her claws, request a King's leave to bear her teeth! The unlamented Lord Baelish had threatened her precious golden cubs – threatened them to be cast out as bastards before having their heads bashed in by her fool of a husband, like as not. And he had done it so smugly, and had the gall to act as if he were doing her a favor.

 

Well, she smirked, he wouldn't be doing anyone any favors any longer.

 

“Wipe that look off your face,” her father hissed, his face mottled with reds and violets such was his own unrighteous anger and Cersei scowled once more.

 

“You did not go and beg and for Lord Reyne's favor, nor Lord Tarbeck's.” She snapped back. “Nor did you attempt to reason with Elia Martell. Littlefinger threatened our family, and I showed him the dangers of attempting to tail our house so wantonly.”

 

If possible her father looked even more enraged, but she was Queen and she would have her piece. She was not bound to him in Casterly Rock any longer! “When _you_ do it, they let you sing about your deeds in public and to terrify any who would defy you further. But you think me foolish for showing my own self to be just as bold as you. Why am I so different that I must be meek and submissive where you can be strong and bold?”

 

“Because when I kill a man, I make sure that nobody is in a position to call me out on it. And I have the sense to make my deeds known to all and sundry that it is a given that the King's Peace – such as it is – supports my sword. I do not behave like a common cutpurse on a botched job!”

 

“I mean really, sister mine,” Jamie drawled from the corner of her father's solar where he leaned against a drawer as if he had not the least concern for their predicament. “You had the King's Master of Coin's throat slit in the street. I'm actually quite impressed – I could never stand the man, myself, but I hadn't thought to silence him quite so permanantly.”

 

“It wasn't in the street,” she barked, then regained herself, refusing to sound like a shill merchant woman instead of a Queen who made her presence felt. “We were well confined – Baelish chose his spot for extortion well.” She sneered, “pity it did not work out for him as he intended.”

 

“You two will cease this idiocy at once or I will drag you to the black cells,” Lord Tywin reprimanded her and Jamie as if they were children once more, and she felt hot shame that her instinct was to fall silent.

 

“Baelish is dead, it is done,” he said slowly, as if explaining the rules of a new game, putting all the pieces out into the open one by one, as was his way.

 

“And that is a hassle, not only because we now have the body of one of the King's servants to deal with,” he locked eyes with Cersei, and she refused to look away, nor even blink. _Hear me Roar!_

 

“But if there were one player I wanted not a whiff on of Lannister influence 'twas the Master of Coin – a poisoned chalice if ever there was one. I had hoped in due time that Baelish would jump the boat before the coming storm came and we could ruin the Tyrells or even Stark with the position. Mayhap we still can...”

 

“But I need to know how much time we have. No more nonsense, you two – what did Baelish say to threaten you, what coin was his blackmail?”

 

Cersei's eyes flickered to Jamie, and though she knew her father would smell a lie she knew just as well that the truth in sum would ruin her.”

 

“A foul lie,” she said, “but one Lord Stark is plotting to use to overthrow my precious son and your future King. He rides to unite with Stannis, with claims that Joffrey is not Robert's get but my bastard.”

 

“That would be most convenient for Stannis,” Tywin scoffed, then turned thoughtful. “Stannis has been acting very oddly since he was made Hand in Robert's absence – he was not subtle in his attempted to undermine the fabric of the city.”

 

 _Fabric of your own cloth_ , Cersei thought to herself but did not say aloud.

 

“I had thought it was because of mine own maneuverings to geld him in that position, but mayhap there was more to it.”

 

“It is no secret – though they were discreet, I will admit – that Stark rides to Bronzegate to meet with Stannis...” Tywin frowned, and Cersei felt ice creep along her spine. “But it is still not right – if Lords Baratheon and Stark were to plead their case, Joffrey is not King, Robert is and Ned is beloved to him. What need do they have to conspire like bandits?”

 

And now her father's gaze pierced upon her. “What could Lord Baelish have possibly said to have given you such cause to believe the threat might ring true?”  
  
For a horrible second she feared he would make her answer, and for another she feared that either her eyes or lips would reveal the great secret.

 

“No.” He held up his hand. “Spare me your idiotic defense. Joffrey is the rightful Baratheon heir. That is all that matters. That is what we are all agreed upon.” Both Cersei and Jamie caught one another's eye once more but their father's gaze was no longer upon them, as he lost himself in his own mind, not considering the reasons for their predicament but now focused on naught but ensuring their survival as they must escape this perfidious trap.

 

“But swear to me – swear to me right now, on the Seven, on the Lannister name, on Casterly Rock... on your own life – that this much is true. That if we do not act now – that if I do not commit now – then Stannis and Stark will bring the world down upon our heads. That our lot is truly cast.”

 

“It is,” she said, meeting his eye though her voice would not raise much above a whisper.

 

Tywin nodded, face full of grim determination. “Then we must make arrangements and be quick about it. We have hours, mayhap days to determine if we keep the crown or lose our heads.” He turned towards Jamie. “Cersei, wait outside my doors, I will have need for you shortly.”

 

Like dewdrops in the Dornish sun, Cersei's gratitude evaporated in that curt dismissal. Though she did not slam her door to her father's solar – she was not so far gone in anger that she knew better than to bring servants running.

 

She paced outside the door, unable to hear anything that went on within, bitter at her own exclusion. They could claim it was her fault, but in truth even Baelish had not made the first move – he had only sought to profit by reporting unto her that the game was now afoot. And she had quite sensibly removed the turncloak from the board, lest he decide he preferred his cloak's former color better than the new. Did none other see how sensible she had been!

 

She could teach more than a few of the Lords who pranced with saddles and spears a thing or two about how to fight a real war, and not some mummer's show for silly girls and drunken Kings.

 

At long last Jamie came out, looking utterly unruffled in his cream-colored cloak – had their father truly let him off so easy? It would be typical, he was long the favorite child. Even now her father oft tried to convince Jamie to leave the Kingsguard and be his heir once more; he did precious little for Cersei's own unhappy circumstance.

 

“You look disgustingly cheerful,” she said, looking up at him. “Am I to go in there now?”

 

Jamie shook his head. “No. Our lord father has need of the Grandmaester and then cousin Lancel. He asks you to inform them to make themselves available immediately.”

 

“Am I a raven?” Cersei bit back. “I think not. I am a Queen and father can go to them himself.”

 

Jamie grabbed her arm, pulling her close and she smiled for a moment, though when he spoke it was not seductive words or honeyed promises. “Queen, raven – what you are right now is on very thin ice. As am I.” he finished before she could retort, pushing her gently away. “Go, bring the Grandmaester to father and then fetch Lancel, the quicker the better.”

 

“And where are you going?” She made to rub her hand up his chest, knowing his weakness for her touch, but craven that he was he stepped back, shaking his head before nodding once towards their father's door.

 

“The Rock.” He said at last. “I must be ready to march the moment father's plan is hatched. And I must not be here, on that there can be no question. And when the realm is paralyzed we must strike.”

 

“What is he going to do,” Cersei whispered, even though they were still well inside their father's chambers, if not in the his private solar; no servant would come here unless called when his children were in attendance, their father had long made certain of that.

 

“I don't know he wouldn't say – don't ask him. I only know that he has need of Pycelle and Lancel, and that I am to prepare for war in the west... and take your guardsman from this morning with me.”

* * *

 

 

 

**Tywin Lannister**

 

This was a disaster of the highest order; but fortunately, Tywin Lannister excelled best when the die had been cast and the result found wanting. He had overcome his fool of a father, who had brought the Lannister name to its nadir until he himself had risen it to the very heights of the Seven Kingdoms; he had defeated the Reynes and Tarbecks, made a name for himself during the War of Ninepenny Kings, taken down a King and made his daughter a Queen. The name Lannister was rightfully respected and feared across the Seven Kingdoms, and not a few lands elsewhere.

 

But now his progeny sought to burn his legacy down to the lowest hells. His daughter was naught but a spoilt little girl and were she twice as clever and she were in truth, mayhap she might be half as clever as she took herself to be. Time with her drunken baffoon of a husband had not helped, turning her bitter so that only the thinnest of masks kept her presentable. His son was hardly any better – still a boy chasing dreams of honor and glory and valor and not what mattered, the blood and the iron. The King's Guard, ha! What a cruel mockery that was – as if the Mad King were tormenting him many years on. And there was, he admitted, Tyrion: though what wit and guile he actually possessed he was all to willing to piss away on wine and whores. The only one in the family worth his dragons was his own brother, Kevan.

 

And it only got worse from there. Joffrey had his mother's temperament but none of the hard lessons; Tommen was almost just as bad, for he was soft and preferred the company and games of little girls. Myrcella was the best of the lot, though that was a low bar indeed. Robert Baratheon – and he would not think of any other possibility – had allowed his sons to spoil like fruit left in the orchard in a long summer. No more – not for the fat Baratheon's sake, but for his own. He had indulged his children long enough; the lot of them would be taken into hand. Nothing so cleared the mind than the danger of facing another Stark-Baratheon... and no doubt Tully triumvirate.

 

He sat down at his desk – unless Cersei truly planned on challenging him, he had naught more than half a turn of the glass before the Grand Maester appeared, shambling in as if just awoke even though both he and Tywin knew it was in truth largely farce. The Grand Maester certainly managed to enjoy the company of girls but a fraction of his age, delayed neither by sacred oaths nor worldly ailments, he thought unkindly as he reached for a parchment.

 

They had a few days, at least. He could not tarry, but he ought to make haste slowly, so as to ensure he did not fail by some fool giveaway in a rush. To start, an order to the Gold Cloaks – the city guard – and to be cried at every market in the city, demanding the summons of Lord Baelish. That ought to muddy the waters, and suggest mayhap that Baelish had gone into hiding for reasons the smallfolk would invent anew with every telling.

 

“It is unlocked,” he called out at a knock on the door, eyes never leaving the parchment as he finished up the decree. In truth he had no right to proclaim it, but none would question Tywin's authority, and the king would be too besotted with drink or whores to even take note. The Grandmaester shuffled in, wheezing out a 'good morning' before shambling to one of the down-stuffed seats that Tywin had for his guests.

 

“It is good to see you, Grandmaester. I was just thinking about how much you have seen of the city. Four Kings now, is it?”

 

“Yes, my Lord,” Pycelle replied slowly, as if still half in sleep. “Though none better than our good King.”

 

“Quite,” Tywin cut in. “And your mind as fit and fresh as when you first arrived, all those years ago. I'm sure one day Prince Joffrey will hold you and you council as high esteem as his predecessors.”

 

“I look forward to the day, My Lord – though of course I pray that it might be a long time coming, may Robert's health hold for many summers to come!” Even his exclamation sounded heavy, as if laden with dust.

 

“It's funny you mention that,” Tywin said, putting down his quill and looking up to lock his eyes with Pycelle's.

 

“Given the horrible death of our former Lord Hand, of which some say was simply of old age but more than a few claim poison, it is of course of the utmost concern for me that the King – and the Crown Prince, of course – are well looked after.”

 

“Of course, my Lord,” Pycelle grovelled.

 

“Let us imagine that a man of say, a middle age but of great girth, prone to excess of meat and drink or primal urges... were to one day not wake up. How might we ensure that he were properly restored, and not left for dead by his own vice?”

 

“I do not think-”

 

“No, you are _paid_ to think. That is what Maester's do. So think.”

 

“It would of course depend on the situation, my Lord,” Pycelle said slowly, though the senile tone of his voice had dropped to but a faint echo of what it had been a moment before. “There are of course the usual dangers that come from drink when one is engaged elsewhere – a man who drinks wine too strong might miss his quarry on a hunt, for instance. Or have a tumble down a rough step or an unbalanced horse.”

 

“Yes, but these are well known, and though they occur, 'tis difficult to arrange such an accident to occur unto the King... or my own grandson. Should any try, there would be enough loyal men on hand to catch the traitor in their midst, and to alert any Maester of the cause so that he might correctly respond.”

 

“Yes, but if _everyone_ involved were such a conspirator -”

 

“Then they would not bother with such trite suggestions as a drunken tumble from a spooked horse!”

 

“Quite so, my Lord, quite so.” Pycelle paused, collecting his thoughts. “There is much unknown about the ailments of excess – many are quite obvious to all; the collection of humors in the head, for instance, that give a nasty pain upon awakening the following morning. Or the gout, whose precise conditions for appearance are still a mystery, but are very clearly linked to an indulgence in meat and ale. There are other things; stones that form in the internal organs, the formation of rot. Pains of the heart that come without warning. Things of that nature. Or men who simply do not awake, though they lay down in good spirits.”

 

“Go on,” Lord Tywin spoke softy, almost seductively.

 

“A man such as you describe, should he be well known to such indulgence... at a middle age it might not be common, but nor would it be unexpected.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Would that be all, my Lord?”

 

“No. It would not. Could an assassin mimic these symptoms though some herb or potion? And if so, would you or another Maester or healer, be able to differentiate between the two.”

 

The Grandmaester looked slightly green now, but many dragons in his purse – and many skeletons beneath his bed – kept his lips from closing.

 

“It... would depend on any number of circumstances, my Lord. There are some potions from Lys that are so rare that I doubt one in even one-hundred maesters, however well trained, would know what to look for, less so how to fight it. But men react differently – sometimes a particular symptom is prominent, other times less so. However – the more time that passes between discovery and diagnosis, the less likely the success. Once outside corruption begins to settle into the corpse, there is naught to be said for it.”

 

“And I would hazard, being on hand to remedy the royal family, that you have available any number of these poisons – for purpose of study and ensuring a correct antidote, no doubt.”

 

Silence, for so long Tywin wondered if he had struck the Grandmaester mute.

 

“Yes, my Lord. That is correct.”

 

“Thank you, Grandmaester – you have put my mind well at ease that the royal family is well looked after. Should I have any further need for you, I shall not hesitate to call.”

 

“Honored to serve, my Lord,” Pycelle returned to his usual wheeze as he stood up on shaky legs, clutching at a walking cane to hoist himself up as he did so.

 

“I know I can always count on the Maesters,” Tywin said as Pycelle made his way out. “Because Maesters never forget who they are loyal to.”

 

The Grand Maester nodded in agreement as he shuffled towards the door.

* * *

 

 

**Lancel Lannister**

 

He was going to hell. Of this he was sure, though the question remained which of the hells was he bound for. Liars? Murders? Adulterers? Practitioners of Incest? Of _Treason._

 

It was his cousin's fault! She had... she had seduced him. Bullied him. Blackmailed him. But what would the Seven care about that, when the blood ran thick down his hands, as thickly as his seed had run down his cousin's thighs...

 

“Are you all right, Ser?” one of his men so assigned him; an old sergeant with a great beard of blonde going to grey upon his face named... Henry – no Harry, that was it, asked; voice respectful and kind, though touched with grizzled concern.

 

“Perfectly fine,” Lancel replied with a quick chuckle, as if it were but a jape, and he were not in truth feeling his soul already burning inside his skin.

 

“It's a rough lot,” the sergeant replied in a whisper, attempting comfort and the presumed reason of Lancel's discomfort.

 

“The lads,” he shook his head at that, pointing to the half-score men that rode about one half a furlong behind them. “They're at unease, they are. I was hoping when we make camp for the night, you might offer them a word or two of comfort.”

 

“They'll do as they're told, mind,” the sergeant interrupted himself, raising a hand off the reins as if too ward off any claim of the contrary. “They're good lads, loyal to a man and know that the only thing more true than a Lannister coin is a Lannister word.” He paused. “But even so, 'tis an unusual mission you can't deny. Arresting the King's Hand! For Treason!”

 

“But they will do it.”

 

“Oh, aye. 'Tis the King, the Realm, and your Lord Father they swore their allegiance to, not some northern barbarian who seeks to turn us proper southern folk into beast-rapin'... well, beast-rapin' beasts. Pardon my Reach, my Lord.”

 

Lancel nodded – his uncle had clearly picked his man well. “I will have that word, then, when we make camp.”

 

The Sergeant nodded, though even beneath the beard it was clear as summer daylight that he felt a great burden released from him. “It's just that they don't know much – didn't even tell them we were heading for the Kingswood until we were well out the city proper, and I've threatened to hang 'em and with a slow drop if a single tongue wags. But they'll be pleased to hear it from you-”

 

“I said I would speak to them,” Lancel snapped, cringing inwardly a moment later. “It will be no problem at all, Sergeant – I thank you.”

 

The Sergeant tipped his head at that, accepting the half-dismissal for its worth and bowing his head once before returning to his men without another word.

 

He would lie to the men, just like he had lied to the Sergeant. He would lie because he had lay. Lain with his cousin, lain with the _Queen_. Like they were husband and wife and not of the same blood and not that she were married. He was an abomination. He knew this.

 

And she... she was an abomination. Wrapped in silks and honeyed words that were in turn wrapped in silks and honeyed – no, he would not dwell on that, he would not! And she had reveled in her wickedness, turning on him while his seed was still moist upon her and demanding to know what her Lord father had spoken about to him in confidence. And he had told her, and she had turned so wroth he had thought he would die then and there.

 

“He will allow Ned Stark to dishonor me, to claim that mine children are the product of bastardy!”

 

Her tongue had took no notice of the stains he had left upon her.

 

“He must... your Lord father says that if war is to be averted, then he must have a confession. Lord Stark must admit on the Steps of Baelor the plot he sought to sow. The King can then show mercy and allow Lord Stark to take the black, and he and Lord Baratheon will be disgraced in the eyes of Gods and men. There will be no war, only love for our family.”

 

Cersei had glowered at that. “To spare the blood of some peasant levees and mayhap the odd overzealous Knight, my father would allow Ned Stark to besmirch me in front of all and sundry,” she had hissed, her eyes full of a passion that, he could admit now, had not been there when they had been making... when she had seduced him.

 

“No,” she had spoke unto herself. Then louder, as if an order. “No.”

 

“He will not.”

 

Then she turned that look of bloodlust onto him, and his soul had turned to craven. “You will go, you will arrest Ned Stark, as my father has ordered,” she had said.

 

“And then you will kill him.”

 


	8. A Promise Kept (Eddard Stark)

**Chapter 8**

 

**Ned Stark**

 

He was sore, tired, and irritable. With a royal order allowing him the use of the finest horses along the Kingsroad, he had made good time indeed; some twenty leagues a day on the fastest days, arriving at Bronzegate long before sunset on the sixth. But even with a good road and a supply of fresh horses, such was a rough ride to make. He was a good enough horseman by any standard in Westeros, and excellent among the less chival-traditioned North; having learned a great deal during his fostering under Lord Arryn in The Vale, a land famous for its horseman. But a man had his limits...

 

Mayhap it was the tautness in the muscles and the fatigue from a lack of sleep, but he found Lord Baratheon particularly disagreeable nonetheless.

 

“I would have!” Lord Stannis hissed, clenching his teeth as seemed to be his wont when angry – a condition that he appeared permanently cleaved to.

 

“'Twas I that brought Jon Arryn into confidence on the matter. I knew that my brother would not believe me were I to tell him – I would have too much to gain, and his pride would never bear my breaking the word that he had been made a cuckhold by the Queen.”

 

“And so you simply did nothing,” Ned interrupted, voice full of disapproval. “You allowed our King – your brother! – to fall further into the Lannister trap.”

 

“I did no such thing!” Stannis replied, and for the first time he sounded wounded rather than angry.

 

“I spent half mine years stuck on that Targaryen rock I am to call my holdfast, and the other half doing everything in my power to keep the lions at bay. But Robert... the King, for all his faults was not a fool. He simply... he is tired and despondent, surely you have noted. He knows what games the Lannisters play but is too dependent on their coin and has lost the will to fight back.”

 

“Very well. Then what are we to do?” Ned replied, attempting to placate Lord Baratheon.

 

“You must be the one to tell him,” Stannis said at last. “Think me a craven if you must for saying so, but it is a simple truth that the King will not believe any accusation such as this from mine own lips; I have too much to gain and he would bear too great a humiliation. But meanwhile, I will raise my banners in the name of the King, and forestall any attempt by the Lannisters to reinforce the city.”

 

“Aye.” Ned replied, slowly. “Though they might have little need for it; I fear much of the city is already in the their grasp.”

  
Stannis let out a dry, humorless chuckle at that. “More than you can imagine,” he said. “And what is not theirs, is Tyrell's. And what is neither Lannister, nor Tyrell, is Baelish. A more unlikely and unholy triumvirate I cannot fathom.”

 

That made Ned pause, a look of skepticism and confusion marring his features. “Baelish? He was a friend of my wife in her youth, fostered as he was by Lord Tully. And though his history with my own family is... less than ideal,” an understatement if ever there was one, skipping neatly over a young Petyr Baelish's duel against Brandon Stark over his newly betrothed, Catelyn Tully, now Ned's own lady wife.

 

“But 'twas he himself who brought me news of this. After my wife brought word from her sister that Baelish was responsible for alerted her to Lord Arryn's poisoning.”

 

Now it was Stannis's turn to frown in bewilderment.

 

“Petyr Baelish somehow manages to always be at the center of things,” he replied drily. “Jon was making plans for should the worst occur when we alerted the King, and was considering sending his son to Dragonstone.”

 

He _tsked,_ “Though now that the island has effectively exiled me in favor of a red witch from Essos, mayhap at least that was better left undone.”

 

At Ned's look, he raised his hand. “An irrelevancy for now – though I swear to you, I will hang her from the highest tower when I retake the island that – what a comedy! – I never wanted. And every man old enough to sprout hair upon his face who took up with her. But we must not linger on it for now.” He seemed to be speaking to himself at that, an attempt to convince his own heart on the matter. Ned did not press.

 

“Please trust me, Lord Stark – Baelish is not as he might appear. He is friendly to all and is so well coiffed and perfumed it is difficult to see him as a danger. He is. When I was Hand in my brother's absence, he did all in his power to bring the royal prerogative to a standstill with cunning and alacrity. I am more than half-convinced he is a crook complicit in every possible crime in the city, from bribery to general corruption to outright thievery and mayhap blackmail and murder. He embodies everything that is rotten in the city.”

 

“I will be discreet,” Ned replied. He could not promise anything further, though he would think about it – for this was troubling in its discrepancy from his wife's own judgment, though his own impressions wavered between the two.

 

Stannis nodded at that though his expression remained unhappy. He would accept it for the nonce, but Ned could tell he would return to the topic in due time.

 

“Baelish is of little consequence,” Ned spoke, moving the two forward – he needed sleep and mayhap a good meal and ale before repeating the hellish journey back to King's Landing, and he could not tarry at Bronzegate; not when even this quick meeting would take half a moon, from the time he left to the time he returned.

 

“I will break news of the deed to the King,” Ned continued. “Alone – I need not bring Baelish or anyone else into my confidence to do that. You must raise the banners and be outside the city before the Lannisters can escape nor call their own.” He paused, in thought. “But I cannot hold the city for the King without some force of mine own, and if you are correct then the Gold Cloaks are assuredly bought by one in the enemy coalition.”

 

Stannis nodded at that, grimly satisfied it seemed in his acceptance of at least that point.

 

“While I was unable to break through the chains mine brother put on me while serving as a mummer's Hand,” Stannis said bitterly, “I did at least make some preparations out of sight. I will give you a letter telling my men to obey you, and a list of those Knights and Lords and hired men within the city that I had brought in to act as a counterweight to the Lannister arms.”

 

A pause, longer this time. “My best man, Ser Davos Seaworth, is also currently back in the city, having delivered my sweet daughter to Stonehelm and away from the witch's clutches. He is maintaining two ships, ostensibly for repairs at port but in truth he is on watch, ready to evacuate the households of my men should it come to that. I understand you have your own son and daughter with you – go to him should you need an escape out of the city. You will find no man better, nor more reliable, I assure you.”

 

It took the rest of the afternoon to finalize the path to which they would now walk, and Ned could only pray that the King would be receptive to their cause. Though Stannis's bitterness blinded him to some extent, Ned feared that the King would not see himself as a brother on this matter, but curse his name for daring to air such thoughts. For as much as the King disliked his wife the Queen – on that Ned was quite certain – it was something else for Ned to name the King as beholden to another's get, his named children bastards the product of another's seed that he had not noticed in all the years. It could, he thought grimly, go either way. And then what would he do – raise his banners against the King? Against the Queen? Against the Crown Prince? T'was absurd!

 

But this, thankfully, was a concern for three week's hence – it was agreed that Ned would act on the fist day of the waning quarter – for now, he could enjoy a night of Lord Buckler's hospitality; complete with a roast of mutton so tender it near but dripped from the bone, and wine as rich as it were deep.

 

And so he was in better spirits the next morning, well rested and well nourished, and with a grim determination to foresee a necessary if unhappy duty, that he set off once more, with Stannis's letters and the three armed guards of his own household that he had taken as escort on this mission.

 

They rode well, through the pasturelands of sheep and occasionally strong-built cattle outside Bronzegate and its many orchards of apples, dates, figs, and plums. These all eventually blurred into lush forest that further north was called the Kingswood but here had one-hundred names depending on the Lord or Knight who made his keep there. They crossed over many becks and gills, though in the south they called them 'streams' and 'brooks'; again, depending on the master of the plot of land in question. At long last the crossed the great stone span that bridged the Wendwater, and he knew that twas not but a few leagues beyond that where the Houses would pledge themselves directly to King's Landing, rather than the ever-distant Storm's End.

 

The forth day was set to be the longest, for there was a long stretch of woodland without an inn or resting place of any sort, and so the horses could not be used so rigorously as there was not the ability to exchange them until much later in the afternoon. And then, not long past midday, as Lord Stark and his men were in the middle of the noontime meal, and watering the horses at a small beck, that they were ambushed by a dozen men. Immediately Ned was up on his feet, the Greatsword of his family, _Ice_ , familiar in his hand.

 

“Lord Stark, have your men, put down their arms,” one of the horseman – a blond, grim-faced and sad-eyed man declared, his posture completely rigid. “You are under arrest, in the name of King Robert, for conspiracy against his bloodline.”

 

He froze for a second at that, though never let slip his defensive posture. “Who are you?” he snapped, though his voice never wavered nor rose unto a scream.

 

“Ser Lancel Lannister, in the King's service,” the man replied. Ned frowned at that. He knew the name – the man had been appointed to Robert's services after Bran had left, though Robert had never made use of him, as far as Ned could have said. He had certainly not met him in the flesh, before this moment.

 

“You have proof, of this?” Ned said, stalling for time and checking out the corner of his eye for the status of his men. They were all still ready to fight, and Ned's heart soared with pride for his northern brethren's determination despite the odds they faced. “A writ in his own hand, mayhap.”

 

“His Grace don't need to answer to the like o' you, traitor,” A flea-bitten man with a greying beard and the look of a lifelong soldier jeered, spitting on the ground to punctuate his thoughts. “Nor need my Lord Lannister. 'Tis not his name in question.”

 

“That will be enough, Harry,” the alleged Lannister rebuked. Then he turned back to Ned. “Don't be a fool, Lord Stark; come with us, and you'll be granted an audience with the King at the very least. If not, you'll be known to all the realm as an escaped convict... and two of your children reside within the city.”

 

 _That_ brought Ned up short. He would risk much – his own life, mayhap even his own name – but he could not risk his own children on a gamble. And there was still some hope as long as it was the King who ordered his arrest – he could talk to Robert, he could tell him the truth of this matter, explain whatever lies the Lannisters had concocted in his absence. He cursed at that – damn Stannis, could they _truly_ not have met at all in the capital, or mayhap at Rosby, if Stannis were so determined in earnest to not enter the city proper under any circumstance.

 

“You know I have the truth of it,” Ser Lancel called out, breaking Ned's thoughts. “Here.”

 

Ser Lancel dropped his reins at that, plucking a golden ring off his finger and tossing it to Ned. Ned let it fall to the ground, then carefully, eyes never leaving the surrounding soldiers nor grip wavering on the sword, crouched slowly down until he could pick it up. He gave it a glance – sure enough that was the Lannister sigil; the man had either murdered a Lannister, or was one of them himself.

 

“Aye... I will come, then.” Ned said. “On your word that no harm will come unto my children. Not from Lannisters.”

 

“We wouldn't-” Lancel stopped, having the grace at least to look mildly ashamed at that, and not continuing his defense.

 

“Harry, seize the prisoners,” he said instead.

 

“Right away, my Lord. Come on then lads, forward. Lord Hand, disarm yourself! In the name of the King!”

 

The going was slow after that, for it was clear that Ser Lancel's men did not exchange horses but rode at a steady pace so as to maintain their mounts. Having four men bound did not do them any favors of time. Though as they went on with every league crossed his faith began to return; Ser Lancel had insisted that Ned not be stripped of his rights as a Lord, nor his men to be egregiously harmed. He had not suffered the indignity of having his self searched nor robbed of his possessions, and so for the nonce Stannis's letters remained safe, though it would be preferable if he could reach them so as to destroy them somehow. His hands were bound and his mouth was even gagged though Lancel looked abashed at that – but on his given word not to attempt to escape Ser Lancel had honored his right to keep _Ice_ , as was custom for gentlemen in these affairs.

 

Even so, the best he had dared hope was that his word held true, and he would have a chance to explain himself before the King, to turn the tables on the Lannister den of vipers. At the very least – though in truth it was the coldest of comforts – with every step he bought Stannis time to act, and the fact that the Lannisters had not dared spring their perfidious trap within the Stormlands itself could only be a fortuitous sign.

 

Yet even in his most fevered planning of possibilities, he did not anticipate the second night of his capture, where they camped but a morning's ride from where the Kingsroad and the Roserode intersect before the Blackwater Rush. They had come across a cottage in a poor state, abandoned, and Ser Lancel had said 'twas as good a spot as any to spend the night, for he did not fancy keeping prisoners in the village that lay at the intersection of the two great roads, busy and full of interested eyes as it was likely to be. His Sergeant had looked around and agreed, and promptly ordered his men to make camp, and indicated that they ought to see if the cottage, dilapidated though it mayhap have been, were fit for Ser Lancel's (and, he grudgingly added, Lord Stark's) habitation, compared to the alternative of a dry spot on the open ground.

 

The men had looked, and cheered, for there were signs that the cottage had been used recently by highwayman or brigands of some sort. Not in itself unusual given its location along the rode and close to a village of some prosperity, but the ne'er-do-wells had clearly had to abandon their post in a hurry; for they found a half dozen pennies on the floor; and more importantly, a cask of wine no doubt intended for the town inn, that was going to vinegar but still potable for men accustomed to wine in truth not much better. It turned out the cottage was in such a state that it was most certainly not fit for a lord regardless of the alternative, but the men found little to concern themselves with the nobles' unhappy lot given their own newfound fortune.

 

Such was their happiness at the unexpected find that they did not even complain when Ser Lancel insisted they share the wine with the prisoners. And Ned nodded to his men, feeling guilt in their circumstance and so not wishing to deny them this small reprieve, though he himself refused to touch it, knowing he at least could not afford to lose his wits.

 

And so they had drank – though not too much – the sergeant had warned, and Ned had had a silent chuckle at that from behind his gag, for how many times had he himself ordered men to be watchful of their drink while on the long march, between two wars and numerous journeys to the wall and throughout The North?

 

But it seemed that they outwitted their sergeant, or mayhap he had known and in truth been complicit: for he himself and even those guards assigned to watch over Ned fell into a deep sleep that night, and Ned cursed the bonds that kept him tied up, impossible to break no matter how tempted he may have been to curse his honor and depart in disregard of his promised word.

 

Then, the stranger had appeared. Giving Ned a look and raising a finger to his lips – as if he could do more than make a muffled shout, bound as he was! – calling for silence nonetheless. Then he had slit the throat of the guards with the speed and skill of a man who knew the trade of death well. As he moved on to the guard that lay deep in his cups closest to Ned, he was able to catch a glimpse of the man's face in the fire that still burned in full in the camp, nobody keeping their wits long enough to dampen it for the night.

 

He was a lean man, reminding Ned very much of a wolf; dark hair and a beard of stubble. He wore the mismatched armor common of a sellsword, though its condition and quality suggested one of particular skill and success – as if the witness to the guards demise had not been proof enough of that.

 

He continued through the camp, eliminating the men that held Ned prisoner, though oddly enough in a few cases he used not his knife, but simply bashed the men solidly in the head. He knew not what to make of that, for the nonce. It saddened him somewhat, if only in the sense of recognizing a man worth his salt, when he slit the sergeant's neck; though even so Ned did not make a sound of warning.

 

Finally, all the men dispatched save Ser Lancel himself, the sellsword assassin went back among the men, skillfully divesting them of coin; nimble fingers checking pockets as well as purses, and even a time or two cutting open the guardsmen's shirts to liberate a coin that had been hidden within; a trick known to every soldier who had ever marched on campaign.

 

Then he went over and half-nudged, half-kicked Ser Lancel in the face.

  
“Wugh!” the Lannister squire grunted in pain and shock. “What is- Bronn, is it?”

 

“Aye,” the sellsword responded, as Ned strained to hear.

 

“Oh thank goodness,” Lancel replied, relief slowly overtaking the panic in his wakeup, and Ned felt a pool of dread. Mayhap his luck had not turned after all.

  
“What are, what did... what happened to my men?” Lancel asked with a deep yawn, his hands coming up to nurse his head where he had been kicked.

 

“Dead,” the sellsword – Bronn – replied simply, as if noting the night were dark or the sea prone to wetness.

 

“Well, except those three dozy buggers over there. Them I just made sure were knocked out proper. Figured you'd be better off if you weren't the only survivor, like. People tend to suspect only survivors.”

 

“I don't, what is – I didn't ask you to kill them!”

 

Good, Lancel was panicking again.

 

“That's the problem with you Lordships,” the sellsword replied with an annoyed sigh. “You want a job done proper but you haven't the foggiest clue how to go about it. You said you wanted the job done, and the job done like it “'twas an ambush of the most sinister and vile of highwayman.” He had pitched his voice at that in a mocking imitation of an effete lord.

 

“S'what I've done. Not a highwayman alive that would sack a group like yours and leave you to tell the tale of it, unless one or two survived, it being dark and maybe a babe among the group panicked over drawing first blood.”

 

Lancel expelled his stomach at that.

 

“Get it out your system, my Lord. Tis better up than down, I always say.”

 

“Now, let's discuss payment,” Bronn added cheerily with little pause.

 

“I paid you in King's Landing... and I have the other half of your coin, I promise,” Lancel said weakly, reaching beneath his shirt and, barely in the light of the flames, Ned could make out some purse that was handed over.”

 

“Could use a bit more, to be honest,” Bronn replied, weighing the bag. “S'one thing to fight a proper, honest fight, quite another to be an assassin. Makes me feel a bit cheap, you understand, your lordship. And I had to pay for the wine, and the medicine to mix with it. Weren't cheap.”

 

“I can give you that,” and now Lancel pointed to Ned. “His sword. It's Valyrian. Very valuable. Many times worth what I've already paid you.”

 

Bronn walked up to Ned, face appraising. And the sword that rested next to him but was infuriatingly out of his own reach.”

 

“S'good sword that.” Bronn remarked with a nod. “And Valyrian, you say.”

 

Lancel nodded as well, though remained silent.

 

Bronn chucked. “I'd rather have a bucket of warm piss to be honest,” he said at last. “If I take a Valyrian sword, the first thing any fool is going to ask is whose was it and how did I get it. The second thing they'll ask is if they can have it for themselves, either by killing me right out or turning me over to the bailiff of the nearest keep.”

 

Bronn shook his head. “My own sword serves well in a fight and I can't sell that bloody thing, so it's naught but a dangerous bauble. On the other hand...”

 

He turned to Lancel, and yes, Ned, concluded, the man had wolfsblood somewhere in his past. It showed plainly in the eyes.

 

“A sword like yours, my Lord? All gold and pretty gems? Plenty of swords like that among your lordships. Could be melted down easy as you please and be worth a small fortune.”

 

“It's... it was a gift from my uncle!” Lancel replied, scandalized. “When I was made squire to the King. You can't have it!”

 

“Just pointing out, my Lord. Were you truly attacked by highwayman, there's a good chance they wouldn't touch that great bloody thing there,” he jerked his thumb towards _Ice_. “Too bloody big, too bloody heavy, too bloody distinctive, and more as like in the darkness taken for normal steel and not worth the hassle of melting down. But no highwayman capable of knocking off your merry lot would leave your sword behind.” He paused for a moment. “Nor your ring.”

 

Lancel gave the sellsword a look of murderous intent, glaring all the while but nonetheless removed his sword and the sigil ring from his finger, throwing both at the sellsword, who caught them without problem and little more than an amused chuckle.

 

“Thank you my Lord, promised you I'd do a proper job – make you look like a lucky survivor of a tragedy than the guilty bloody man that you are.” He bowed mockingly.

 

“Right then, all four of them, yeah? Quick and easy does it.”

 

Lancel nodded.

 

Bronn turned around, gazing at Ned.

 

“Sorry, my Lord. Heard you were the decent sort, to be honest. But coin is coin.”

 

If he could not speak, Ned would at least face death with open eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went as far as I could to make Ned unbound from his definition of honor in order to fight the Lannisters, but there are limits to bending before you break the character. He didn't alert Cersei of his plan that he would ruin her. He didn't (though we don't know if he would have, if held captive to his children's well-being) denounce himself on the Steps of Baelor. He was willing to conspire to stage a coup (a coup for the King, but still...) But, with his children hostage and at least some hope that ultimately Robert was to be his judge, yes – Ned surrendered here without a fight, unwilling to attempt (a not by any means guaranteed) escape that would make him obviously a traitor, while his children were in jeopardy. Not when there was a chance.
> 
> Not attempting to escape after giving his word (and being allowed to keep his sword) was accepted protocol among European nobles. I didn't shoehorn this in for Ned.
> 
> Some will say the way this played out was naïve, or foolish, or w/e, but I believe I stayed true to the character while giving Ned a fighting chance of discovering an alternative. But in this case, he didn't. Them's the breaks.
> 
> I like Ned, too!
> 
> Anyway, time to head back North. I imagine you can make a guess at what generally happens next in Winterfell.


	9. A Banner Raised (Robb Stark)

**Chapter 9**

 

**Robb Stark**

 

 

For six days ravens arrived and he did nothing, reading words that oft conflicted but never grew any better in their wording. But on the seventh day, he rested naught.

 

“Maester Luwin, I would speak to you immediately after breakfast, in my father's solar,” he called out when he passed the Maester as when entering the Great Hall to break fast with Arya and Rickon, doing his best to imitate his father's most Lordly tone. “Please ask Vayon and Rodrik to join us – I would have their council as well.”

 

The Maester gave him a quick bow, while Arya gave him naught but a funny look as she sat down.

 

“You're different,” she said after swallowing too much food.

 

“Aye,” Robb let out a dry, grim, chuckle. “I feel like a dead man.”

 

“Will you tell me what's going on – you've been holed away in father's solar for days now! What's wrong.”

 

“Yes, Robb, tell us!” Rickon piped up.

 

Robb looked between the two, Arya's probing face and Rickon's innocent one; for his little bother knew not but that there was a secret to be known, and had no sense of the weight of it.

 

“I will tell you after I have spoken to Luwin and the others,” he said at last to Arya, before turning to his brother and forcing a smile upon his face, “and _you_ I shall take to the Godswood, and we shall run with Grey Wind and Shaggy Dog and Nymeria.”

 

Rickon nodded at that, though smiled and went back to his bacon. Arya frowned; they had discovered by chance that taking Rickon to the Godswood with the direwolves was the only activity he would agree to without sullenness nor hysteria. Clearly, his sister suspected much if he would not share news in their brother's presence, but sought to bribe him with the only activity he cared for.

 

Robb buttered a piece of toast from the rack laid out by the servants and ate, a glass of ale – heavily weakened with water – following shortly after. Naught to be done for it, and he would tell her all soon enough, as soon as he could in truth fully comprehend what was upon them.

 

Maester Luwin had not tarried, and it was but a moment after Robb had sat himself behind his father's desk that there came a knock on the solar door.

 

“Enter,” Robb called out, “Please, be seated,” he added as the three men who had most held his father's trust at Winterfell took their places.

 

“I have been remiss,” Robb said, keeping his hands and voice steady as he did so. “And should have called upon you earlier – I am at a loss as what to do but fear catastrophe falls upon us. I need your advice on what to do.”

 

He loathed the tinge in his voice that reeked of helplessness – his father had entrusted him to be Lord of Winterfell, not a suckling unable to leave the teat!

 

But neither Maester nor Steward or Master-at-arms looked upon him as if he were a fool nor child; only short nods and grim, determined faces returned his gaze. And from that, Robb took strength. If this were his to prove to be his first council of war, then he would lead it as well as he could.

 

“Ravens – from King's Landing, for the most part,” he said, holding up a sheaf of parchments that had all arrived in the past six days. “This from the Red Keep, signed only with the palace sigil – the King has fallen into the deep sleep, until such time as he awakens the Queen acts in his stead and appoints Lord Tywin Lannister as Lord Protector of the Realm.”

 

Vayon Poole frowned at that, “That is not right, my Lord. The Queen is naught but a consort, even if she comes from a family as powerful as the Lannisters. Your lord Father would command, as Hand.”

 

“Aye, and yet, then we have this.” He slammed down the remaining letters, emitting a loud _thud_ from the desk and rattling the ornaments upon it.

 

“From mine own sister and brother, a letter that is very obviously not their own in truth. Father has gone missing and a Lord Baelish is said to be the cause; they urge me to quickly write and assert that Winterfell accept Lord Lannister's guardianship. 'Tis their names but it is not their words.”

 

“This one from Rosby; Ser Greenwood, one of the men that accompanied my father, says he set off on a mission south and did not return, but that my father's household has since been contained to their rooms, confined as 'honored guests'. To his knowledge only he was able to escape the city.”

 

He looked up, particularly at Ser Rodrik at that. “I am sorry, Ser. He makes no mention of your nephew.”

 

Another letter. “This one written on behalf of a Ser Seaworth, who I know not. He says my father knew of a plot against the King and rode south to meet with Lord Stannis Baratheon, but was ambushed, most likely by Lannister men, though he cannot prove it.”

 

“From my lady mother, in Riverrun, where she has elected to stay as my grandfather deteriorates. That she too is convinced that the Lannisters are behind this, now accusing them of murdering Lord Arryn, and mayhap attempting the same against my father. Ser Edmure acts on behalf of Lord Tully and raises the Riverland banners.”

 

“To raise my banners and march against King's Landing – mayhap this is treason, no matter what the truth of these letters are... Can you give me no reason why I should not do it, nevertheless!” He looked up, face full of defiance.

 

“Promise only that you will grant me a place at your side,” Ser Rodrik responded with a growl, standing up.

 

Robb nodded. “Maester Luwin, Ser Vayon?”

 

“'Tis grim,” Vayon Poole replied slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But the King thinks of your father as his brother. If we make a mistake and your Lord father is but missing but unharmed, the Queen and her lord father rightfully command until the King awakes... they will understand. 'Tis naught until you leave The Neck that it is truly a concern, and by then we will know more about what is going on.”

 

“And if we learn. Then what, Ser Vayon? If we must cast the die, where do you stand.”

 

Vayon Poole paused, taking a deep breath.

 

“I have always served your house and your father on my honor. I will not cease doing so now. Call your banners.”

 

Robb nodded.

 

“And you, Maester.”

 

“I am sworn by the Citadel to take no part in the Kingdom's quarrels,” Luwin said, and Robb felt his face warm at that. “However,” the Maester continued, ignoring or ignorant of Robb's inner feelings on his apparent refusal to take part, “I am also sworn to impart the best possible advice to mine charge.”

 

He continued, a sly gleam in his eye. “I would only suggest, my Lord, that the letters you have received may have arrived within the past day or two, but are nonetheless likely a fortnight out of date, and who knows how much time passed between what has truly occurred and when the news was written down and sent.”

 

“What are you getting at, Maester,” Robb asked, though not with anger in his voice now but intrigue.

 

“For all you know, my Lord, opportunists already abound. You must act in the south even before you know for certain there is something to react to, lest a hostile force attacks you unawares. And no doubt your own lords are receiving their own ravens as we speak. If nothing else, you must show that the Stark in Winterfell rules.”

 

Robb nodded at that, thinking for several moments before speaking again.  
  


“Send out the ravens, Maester. To every keep and castle in the North. Call the Banners, have them come to Winterfell.”

 

He paused again. “And what you say is true enough – if something were to happen in the neck it would be days before we had word, if we even did. Advise Lord Manderly to send men to Moat Cailin – send the same my father's friend, Lord Reed as well.”

 

Maester Luwin dipped his head. “No ravens can find the Reeds at Greywater Watch, but I shall send word to Flint's Finger to send a fast rider and alert the Crannogmen.”

 

Robb nodded. “Very well then – Ser Rodrik, prepare to receive the northern armies and coordinate Winterfell's own soldiers. Ser Vayon – we must prepare to feed and supply the same.”

 

He thought for a moment. “Send a raven North and East as well, I will have my brothers with me if I must march south.”

 

Maester Luwin balked at that. “I will send word immediately to Last Hearth and Castle Black to pass the message onto your half-brother,” he said. “But Lord Robb... Theon _must_ learn to sail. And you cannot take your father's hostage to war.”

 

Robb had angered at that, though he bit his tongue to dull its sharpest points. “Theon is a brother to me and my father has treated him like a son,” he replied, voice steady and strong. “If I were to march and leave Theon behind he would never forgive me – he would insist on marching to rescue the man who he saw as a father.”

 

“Even so, Robb, he is not your brother. Lord Greyjoy is his father, and you cannot act as if that is not so.”

 

“No – I will not allow otherwise. I will march with men at my side who I can trust without fail. Send for Jon, and send for Theon.”

 

Maester Luwin had ultimately yielded.

 

He had acted late, mayhap, but he had at least acted before his own lords took his as a craven or inflicted with paralysis. The ravens went out, and over the coming weeks the banners arrived, and looking out over the parapets Robb could see what appeared an ocean of men that made his heart soar.

 

First to arrive were the black battle-axe on a field of silver of House Cerwyn, the wolf heads of Cassel, the blue plate of House Poole, as was only natural, being houses sworn directly to Winterfell and having the least distance to travel. But soon enough others joined: the horse head of House Ryswell, with half of what would become his heavy horse. Smartly arrayed pikemen and archers under the trees of House Tallhart. Strong men weilding great axes from Barrowton. Swords under the bullmoose of House Hornwood and an even greater number of them – almost an army in its own right – under the command of his future good-father, Lord Bolton, riding beneath the flayed man.

 

Then the soldiers from the mountain clans began to arrive, who came with a motley of weaponry but more than made up for it with their own foreboding strength, and their undying roars that they would march South to the end of the world if needs be to rescue “The Ned.”

 

Men came from the houses of the Wolfswood, their banners showing themselves to be Whitehill or Glover or Forrester or Branch. Men who carried bows and daggers and wooden spears tipped with iron, and only wore boiled leathers instead of mail or plate, but who his lord father once remarked more than made up for their weakness in the line by deploying them in front or beside it, to harry the enemy and his lines of supply. Lords came from White Harbor and its environs, with pledges that men and horses were forming and marching further south, to join Robb's vast army when he moved southward.

 

At long last, the black bear of House Mormont and the roaring giant of House Umber arrived, and the army was all but complete. By the time he reached Moat Cailin, he was told, he would have a force over twenty-thousand men strong, mayhap closer to thirty when all was said and done.

 

He frowned at that though, for though he could scarce fathom such a size, he was told that the Riverlands and the Westerlands could field an army of such a size, and The Reach an army mayhap twice that. He shook his head to clear gloomy thoughts. He did not march against the other Kingdoms – he would clear the matter and return to Winterfell soon enough.

“I want to go with you,” Arya had said. “Women can fight too – look at Lady Mormont, and how her men follow her so!”

 

“'Tis nonetheless a rate thing, the Mormonts more the exception that the rule,” Robb had replied, having this discussion for more times than he cared tally. “And anyway,” he continued, as Arya sought to argue the point, “Lady Mormont is not ten.”

 

“I need you here,” Robb had said at last. “You are The Stark in Winterfell, in my absence.”

 

“Rickon should be, he's ahead of me in line,” she had replied, voice whining.

 

“Rickon is a babe, and if left in charge soon all of Winterfell would be obliged to do naught but play with wolves and dogs,” he had said, earning a weak smile from Arya. “And anyway, you will be in charge now – you will not have time for sewing lessons, and in truth you will have much to do with the war effort, for there will be new recruits training and passing through winter-fell as long as I have need of them.”

 

“I will still make time for Needle,” she had said in leiu of agreement.

 

“Aye – you'll have time for that,” Robb had agreed. Then more seriously. “Arya, please. We are a pack, as father says. You are ten! But though you cannot wield a sword, you must do your part to hold the North in mine and mother's and father's absense. You _must_ see how important this role truly is, I do not speak false words to you.”

 

And she had looked in his eyes and seen that he spoke truth and given him a quick, jerky nod. For her quirks, he could not ask for a better sister, and told her as much.

 

But with the tide of men came a tide of still more ravens, and the news did not improve. News came by way of arriving lords, as well, relaying from cousins or good-brothers or loyal merchants who passed on word. Tragedy had befallen Lord Stark, all were certain, though none knew for sure whether he were dead or alive, an uncertainty that Robb clung unto though it put ice in his belly to think about. Some said he had been arrested by a Lannister plot; others said 'twas being claimed that Lord Stark had been the conspirator. Some that said that it was in truth a third party, most oft but not always accusing either Lord Baelish or Lord Baratheon, the King's middle brother. Another letter claimed to be from his siblings – and nary a word from the rest of the household – all the more frantic that Robb ride to King's Landing alone and pledge that the North remained loyal.

 

Not a moment too soon, for another raven had arrived, from his lady mother now trapped at Riverrun. Her brother, Edmure, acting in place of the fast weakening Lord Tully, had called his father's banners after the first ill-omened message, but buckling under the time it took for the Northern and Eastern Riverlanders to prepare their levies, he had taken a half-formed host out from Riverrun, with the Lords from between Wendish Town and Pinkmaiden, and led an assault on the Lannister lands... only to shatter against the walls of The Golden Tooth. Now, Ser Edmure was back behind the walls of Riverrun while many other highborn lords were prisoners in the west, and Riverrun itself was under siege, while a second Lannister force ran with all abandon through the lands between the Red Fork and the God's Eye, sparing neither castle nor township in their pillaging.

 

And still the King slept.

 

“We march at first light,” Robb announced to his council, a collection far too large to be of any real use but he was still uncertain as to who he could appoint to a meaningful position within his council without so offending his other bannermen. “I have word that Riverrun is under siege – we cannot tarry any longer.”

 

He was taken aback at the grumblings of discontent that erupted at that pronouncement, and not in a way that favored his own self.  
  
“You are my father's sworn men,” he replied, furious. “And now at the first sign of doing more than making camp you would refuse to march?”

 

“We refuse nothing,” Lord Umber – called Greatjon so as to distinguish him from his son of the same name – declared, his tankard spilling ale as he did so. “But as you say, we are your father's men. We would leave the north and march through hell for him, aye, but now we are to march for Lord Tully!?”

 

“He is mine own grandfather, and attacked by the very men who have ambushed my father.”

 

“You lady mother said herself that 'twas the Tullys who sought to draw first blood,” The Greatjon retorted. “And Riverrun could withstand a siege for years, the King will be up and about by then, one way or another.”

 

“And the fact that they have attacked, mayhap arrested, mayhap killed -” he did not hitch at that, not in front of such a fractious set of lords. “- my father, your sworn Lord.”

 

“You don't know that,” The Greatjon replied, expression sympathetic but words cutting Robb to the bone, nonetheless. “Let us march down the Kingsroad and put the fear of proper Gods into the southerners, aye, and onto King's Landing if need must... but bugger the Tullys and bugger the Lannisters, let's go find Ned!”

 

And just as Robb had feared that before even his first step south he would face a mutiny of his own lords, Grey Wind had joined the fray as the Greatjon had been prepared to pull his sword as if to lead the North his ownself, leaping from Robb's feet and knocking even the giant man back astep... and taking two fingers for his trouble.

 

And – the Greatjon had stared at his hand, now bleeding from the stumps of the two missing digits – and roared with laughter. Within naught more than an hour and with a bloody linen wrapped around his hand and a new and full tankard of ale in the other, he had declared to the same room that had grumbled against Robb that he was in need of a good killing, and mayhap a quick stop at Riverrun to loosen some Lannister tongues was the best way to discover where Lord Stark was being kept under rock.

 

And so, for the first time since the Mad King had called for Ned Stark's head, when he were but a fledgling lord about Robb's own age, the North marched at full strength, determined to find either justice or vengeance at King's Landing. And though Jon had not yet arrived, for he had taken his force north of the wall so as to supplement the Watch for reasons Robb yet knew not, Theon arrived on the fourth day that the banners of the north marched, which gave Robb yet another reason to cheer that nothing would stop him.

 

“Is this a jape?” Robb asked, incredulous.

* * *

 

 

“No, my Lord,” the Riverland courier remarked, standing at attention as Robb took council – now a much more honed down group than the mockery of such that took place back in Winterfell. They were south of Moat Cailin now, the northern army at full strength and making good speed, when word of yet more troubles approached just as they prepared camp for the eve.

 

“Harrenhall has fallen,” Robb submitted to his council upon reading the newest report, voice gloomy as he continued. “Lord Lannister himself.”

 

“Then it is war,” Theon was the first to speak. “If he is launching an invasion of his own out of the Crownlands, it can be nothing but.”

 

“As if that were not ill fortune enough, he moves northward. We now have three Lannister armies in the field to our one, and cannot relieve Riverrun without surrendering the Kingsroad.” Robb bit, staring at the map.

 

“If I may, my Lord,” Roose Bolton asked in that commanding whisper of his. “Reports can be misleading. The Lannisters may be able to summon gold as if it were snow, but gold is not flesh. Where did this third army come from?”

 

Robb paused at that, looking at the map carefully.

 

“We can trust in complete confidence that an army surrounds Riverrun, and we can expect a reliable count of its composition,” Robb said, finger tapping on the crude wooden block that had been placed on the map to represent the force.

 

His lords brokered no disagreement with that statement.

 

“And likewise, we can be sure there _is_ a force south of the Red Fork, and that it is of sufficient strength to inflict a string of defeats against holdfasts that are neither weak nor craven. That _should_ be the Lannister force, in sum. Neither task is a simple one and even a Lannister could not smuggle an army across the continent without objection.”

 

Dread touched him, though 'twas Lord Umber who first spoke it.

 

“Unless it's an army levied from the Crownlands,” he said gruffly. “Or as many sellswords as Casterly Rock can by.”

 

 _That_ was a terrifying thought.

 

“It is Crownlands,” Robb spoke with somber certainty. “The fleet 'twas well dispersed by Lord Baratheon – is that not so, Ser Wylis? No new army has appeared in Westeros.”

 

“The armies of the King are wielded by Tywin Lannister against us.” Theon concluded.

 

Robb paused to collect his thoughts before continuing. “But Crownlands levies are not limitless; he can either unite this third force with his two in the west, or block our path south. But no more than that. And that assumes he need worry not about my lady aunt to the east...”

 

Robb frowned at that, eyes looking at the Vale, and the block that represented its forces, placed for lack of better guess at The Bloody Gate.

 

“Though she has done naught that would give him any concern so far, I grant him.”

 

He shook his head, clearing the grim thoughts. “We have no cause not to advance, but mayhap not due south. He slashed the map, from east to west, before tapping on the image of a castle and a bridge. “We cross here.”

* * *

 

 

“Heh, this is a surprise. Couldn't get a Lord to so much as spit in my direction, and now here you all are, hat in hand begging to cross my bridge. Heh.”

 

“Lord Tully is your leige lord,” Lord Glover began, one of the selected lords Robb had entrusted to come with him on what promised to be a trying deliberation.

 

“Pah! I called my men, just as his son ordered – they're all here, you have eyes!” Lord Walder Frey said with a shaky arm gesturing around the room. “But the way I see it, the King's the King and he hasn't said naught about it,”

 

“The King is sick and in deep sleep,” Robb ground out.

 

“Aye, details,” Lord Frey shrugged, “and the Queen rules in his place. A Lannister Queen. Where's your father then, eh? Letting a woman doing a man's job. Heh.”

 

Robb's hand itched for his sword, but he forced himself to calm. “I have an army, and I need to cross your bridge and so I will cross it.” He said instead of his fervent wish for Lord Frey to fall down dead where he sat.

 

Lord Frey let out a great phlegmy wheeze at that. “You'd have nothing but an army of corpses if you tried, I promise you that, but... mayhap there is another way, Lord Stark. You march to war, mayhap you have need of a squire or two. Or a body to keep you warm at night. Could use a wife – put a baby in her belly before you get yourself killed, like my men would have been if they'd been any quicker at reaching Hoster Tully.”

 

“Lord Stark is betrothed,” Lord Bolton spoke for the first time, eyes never leaving Walder Frey. They locked for a moment before Lord Fray looked away.

 

“Bah, there's plenty more. What say you, Lord Stark, unite our houses at last, as both your grandfathers so oft denied me. Turned away so many times but times are different now, aren't they?”

 

Restraint. “Bran and Sansa are in King's Landing, and I am certain Sansa will never marry Prince Joffrey now. Mayhap -”

 

“No!” Lord Frey let out with a mouth full of spit. “I'll have a marriage today, Stark, or at least within the next moon – and one that you can deliver on. Your brother and sister might as well be across the Narrow Sea in Braavos, or as far away as Yi Ti for all the good you can promise them.”

 

He frowned, greedy eyes squinting in thought. “The other girl though, what's her name? How'd you like to make her a Lady Frey? Send a raven to Winterfell and have her brought down here.”

 

“I will not,” Robb growled. “I will not force my sister to wed when she is not a woman proper grown.”

 

“Heh, didn't do me any problems,” Lord Frey hissed. “But if you insist on waiting the ages to even consider it, it doesn't do me a lick of good. Nor an even younger Stark – I'll be dead and buried in a year or two, what good will a betrothal do me then! I've got to get rid of a few of these useless mouths, not pamper them until the next spring! What-”

 

“I will marry one of your daughters of mine choosing,” Roose Bolton whispered, and Robb turned to him in shock. “Call them forth and I will have her wedded and bedded before we break camp on the morrow.”

 

There was silence.

 

“Heh. Well this is a turn. Not a Stark or a Tully though... but a Stark good-father to be, I suppose. Could do worse, heh.”

 

“Right – you there, boy! Call your sisters! Tell them one of them's going to be a lady so make themselves presentable.” He gave Robb a spiteful grin. “And for the dowry, you can have my son Olyvar as a squire, and the rights to cross my bridge. Mayhap twice, lest you don't have the time to dawdle the next time you come by.”

 

Robb had negotiated a better deal than that – by the next morning, all but a token force to defend The Twins itself would march with Robb, and none would claim that Lord Frey had even considered breaking his oaths. But even so he burned with the shame of it.

 

“Lord Frey has dishonored you,” he said in private to his good-father after he had selected his bride, a petite, pale girl with a pretty face and long brown hair, after the Maester of The Twins had assured Lord Bolton that of all Lord Frey's wives, her mother had never had issue giving birth to healthy babes.

 

Roose only replied, “He has dishonored all of us, my Lord. Though at least I was able to get something of practical out of it.”

 

Robb's nodded, hands clenching. “The Frey's will pay us back in full, I promise you today. But in the meantime I shall pay you. I will supply the dowry that was denied you, Lord Bolton, for the good deed you did unto me. Name your boon and if it be in my power, I shall grant it.”

 

Roose was silent for a moment.

 

“That is very generous, my Lord,” he said with a slight bow of the head. “Mayhap you will allow me some time to think upon it – it does not do to let the tongue wag with hasty wishes.”

 

Robb nodded. “Take as long as you desire.” His smile turned feral. “For now, I have a task for Lord Frey, one that he will accept or I will tear his castle down around his ears, no matter what he thinks it might cost me to do so.”

 

The next morning, the Northern host traversed the Green Fork, and for the first time in moons, the raven carrying ill omens went south.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without a dowry worth its weight, Roose's eye went elsewhere. As long as there's a good chance she can bare him sons. So in addition to Robb/Fem!Domeric, I think I've also invented the Roose/Roslin?
> 
> My intent is that Robb makes some good decisions, some bad decisions, some indecisions. He's still new at this. I hope that came across.


	10. An Army Bloodied (Various)

**Chapter 10**

 

**The Battle at the Old Stones**

 

Ser Tyrek Lannet ignored the rolling fog that had yet to dissipate in the rolling hills of the northern riverlands, rolling onwards with his detachment of men as quickly as they did, his blood hot in anticipation of the battle to come. Word had arrived that the northern host was attempting to relieve their lord's kin trapped at Riverrun, but led not by Ned Stark and instead, by his unbloodied whelp, now found themselves forced to lay siege to Tully's own bannermen, at the Twins. His cousin had bit at the opportunity provided, leaving the heavy horse and half their foot, as well as the siege engines and the baggage train behind to continue the assault on the Tully stronghold, while the remainder of his force went north as quickly as they could, intent on joining up with the Freys and so smashing the northern force and with it, any chance – however slim mayhap it were – of the Riverlands continued resistance.

 

He grinned viciously at the thought as his horse trotted onwards. His cousin Jamie was not the only western man to grow tired doing naught but sitting outside the water-soaked walls of Riverrun, especially as word continued to come of Ser Kevan Lannister sacking holdfast after holdfast, from making new ruins at Pinkmaiden to the capturing old ones at High Heart. Now there would be bloodletting against the savages who worshiped animals and wore one another's skins as cloaks. There would be prestige and gold aplenty, and for a second son of a cadet branch such as himself... mayhap a keep and a small village of smallfolk in the conquered lands to be considered should he prove himself this day.

 

They had passed by Fairmarket, his cousin choosing to ford the Blue Fork downstream rather than lose time and men attempting to seize the bridge within the town. And the cravens had not even sallied southward to even attempt to thwart them! If he could see through the hills and woodlands, he expected by now that the ruins of Oldstones lay to the south, now on the far side of the riverbank as he and his thundered northward.

 

His dreams of gold and glory were cut short by a piercing scream from a rider on his flank, as he was flung from a horse that had been bloodied – there it was, two arrows pierced its belly. He scowled – though the Riverlands did not now field a proper army, there were always men willing to imitate cutthroats and vagabonds and claim they were but doing their lordly duty.

 

“Hack them down,” he screamed to his men, kicking his heels and pulling slightly upon the reins as the formation curved rightward, towards their newly found tormenters. They would not get all of them, he knew from experience, but there was always some fool who insisted on firing one too many arrow, and they would at least cut him down and string him from the trees, so to avenge their wounded man and as a warning to other would-be soldiers with nary a thought of giving honorable battle.

 

To his horror, 'twas not another arrow or two that came, but a volley. Four more men went down in a torrent of kicking limbs and curses, screams of horse and man intermingling terribly. His eyes widened in surprise as from betwixt a grove of pines came a line of some ten and twenty men with shining pikes, professionally handled all, falling into proper stance and formation as the blades bristled outwards and his horses began to balk.

 

But 'twas not the end of the nightmare – for these were not even professional men-at-arms but from ramshackle units of the Riverlands – unfurling behind them was the raised steel gauntlet of House Glover. How could The Twins have fallen so quickly!

 

Then the arrow came –

 

– Domeric let out a roar of equal parts of exultant triumph and a release of held back fear, as the last of the horsemen peeled away, leaving a third of their number on the ground, dead around them.

 

“Forward, lads,” through the haze – for he felt like a man drunk, though that morning he had hardly been able to eat nor drink – he managed to hear the sergeant screaming at him and his fellows. “You didn't kill those buggers for shits and japes, did ye? Rich horse-assed bastards like that are liable to have a coin or two and I want my share. Then we'll go find some more highborn shits with golden hair to slaughter.”

 

Domeric had laughed and cheered with the men at that, as they advance on the fallen western men. To think that but two months ago he had been the son of a miller, expecting no lot in life than to work the job as his father had done before him, who in turn had done as his own father had done. But then Lord Stark had called his banners and Lord Glover had sent out a summons for men to come to the colors, and so Domeric had gone, and winning the silver stag for his troubles before being marched to Winterfell and put through a quick regimen before thrown into a line of men who were half green like himself, and half old hands at war as existed anywhere in the realm.

 

“You did good, lad,” a grizzled pikeman with a shorn head and a scar along one cheek said with a grin as they approached one of the fallen knights, a sandy haired man not much older than himself. “That's a proper sword, like,” the pikeman exclaimed, experienced hands untethering it from the corpse. “Look alive, lad – search his pockets, likely a few things hidden on him worth taking. But be quick about it.”

 

He searched the body, ignoring the scream as his fellows slit the throat of another knight who had been not dead but grievously injured. There was a small purse around his own man's neck, which he handed to his new friend.

 

“Here we are then. A dragon! I'll take that and that'll be three stags and a handful of coppers for you – make sure you give one of 'em to the sergeant. Take his boots lad – good footwear, that, and looks about your size, thereabouts. I'll keep the sword.”

 

Not minutes later the sergeant was screaming at them to form up once more, and he did so, feeling like a proper soldier now, with new boots on his feet and coin in his pocket, and a weapon that if not _bloodied_ had done its bit to keep the enemy horse at bay so that the archers could do their deadly work.

 

Mayhap the enemy knew they were here now, and there would be no chance for another ambush. And soon enough they met another formation of westerners; he grinned, at this rate by sundown he would be a rich man, if every body yielded even only a single stag!

 

The men around him – trusted battle brothers, now! – hollered as they charged towards the enemy, full throated roars that would be remembered for years to come when they would jape and drink at Deepwood Motte. So quick was it that the frenzied bloodlust did not leave his lips even as the sword pierced his belly –

 

– By the Stranger how he had missed this! He had been a green boy when he had first set foot upon the shores of Pyke, eager but ignorant as the King sought to stamp out the rebellion of the Greyjoys. But since that day, when he had slaughtered his first Ironborn outside the city walls of the town of the same name, he knew this was what he had been born to do. And he had done it, putting down insurrections or bandits across the Westerlands but this! This was real war, once again!

 

He pulled his sword out of his opposite man – barely more than a boy with his first whiskers – heaving mightily as the dead lad's innards sought to hold his sword in place. But come out it did with a squelch, for he was no novice, and within a heartbeat he was gleefully smashing forward once more, ruining the face of another northern cunt with his shield, before making a quick jab, short and deadly and aiming true at the joint and sending the man to the ground in a scream of pain and terror before he fell silent.

 

And another, and another! There was the cunts' banner, twas so close. He might be the first, to seize an enemy colors. Why not-

 

Damn it all to hell, where _had_ these western bastards come from. They were supposed to be sitting pretty with their cocks out around Riverrun, not all the way up here, north of the bloody trident!

 

The halberd was stuck where it had punched through the man's face, and there was naught time to pull it out before the next man was upon him. He cursed; for he had served House Glover faithfully for many years, and the thought that the banner should fall on his watch, even if he gave his own life, was a bitter one. Then there was a roar from the east, and its call was bittersweet, though mayhap it was better than no call at all –

 

– ”Nobody takes a Glover banner unless he's an Umber!” came the great roar, screamed from three score men, not a one of them under six feet tall, and some closer to seven, mayhap beyond it. “No Glover but Umber! No Glover but Umber!” Onward they came, a torrent of men half-crazed with the battle, and they smashed relentless into the flank of the tiny westerners, sending them reeling backwards and snatching victory from them at the last moment.

 

Jon Snow – of no relation to the bastard of the same name at Winterfell – roared along with them, swept away as the western men fell back, some in good order but many others fleeing in the general direction of their fellows. Around him now, his brothers were reforming, the surviving knot of Glovers taking their colors from where it was jointly held by a greying Glover man and a giant brute of a westerner, face much scarred, and taking a position on the Umber flank – rivalry forgotten in the face of the southern enemy. “Forward lads!” –

 

– They were a poor house, but a proud one, the Westerlings. Ancient but lacking coin, prestigious but held in pity if not in contempt for their current lot. Unable to gain coin without lowering their own name in the process, and paralyzed as to which were the lesser poison.

 

As such, when Ser Jamie had sent the ravens from Casterly Rock, 'twas but a handful of horse that the Crag could offer. But determined to do its part and so mayhap gain some small favor from their liege lord, they had conscripted every smallfolk old enough to have hair upon his chin and of sufficient strength that he might wield the longbow, and marched with as many wagons of iron and foodstuffs as they could muster.

 

The wagons they had left behind at Riverrun, but the archers stood on a small hill overlooking a vale fast flowing with the blood of two armies, neither of which had anticipated the other.

 

The ebb and flow was hard to follow, but in truth this mattered little to Raynald Westerling, eldest son and heir to his lord father, who for the nonce rode with what few Westerling horse there were, and so he the son had been left in command of his father's foot. So it came to be that he held this nameless hill, hardy worth the term, along with men from the Golden Tooth and Sarsfield and Ashemark and Oxcross, long in swords but for the most part lacking bows, save the Westerling contingent.

 

“There, coming up through the vale!” came the loud and crisp shout of the Lord of Sarsfield's commander, a lowborn man whos name Raynald did not recall but had heard the man had done much to earn Lord Sarsfield's favor. “Looks like...” he frowned, squinting as the banners that did not unfurl as the wind had gone to ground. “Umber,” he grunted at last. “With a contingent of another, though I cannot make it out from here.”

 

“Arrows, ready!” he called out, and Raynald repeated the order, shouting at his own men. Even the men-at-arms began to tense, for 'twas but a flip of the coin whether or not their quarry would seek shelter or attempt to drive them from the hill, and the men below were giants, at least a head taller than any of his own, should it come to a melee...

 

“Fire!”

 

The arrows filled the sky, so thick and true that Raynald found it hard to imagine a single man in the vale could survive such an onslaught. But of course – as he had in truth known – many if not most did, and their fury was taken onto the men that had rained death upon them. The archers prepared another volley, and Raynald reached for his sword – 'twould be but another minute or two before the blades crossed –

 

– “Slaughtered to a man, my Lord!” the rider cheered, and Robb's heart sang with joy at the news from where he sat on his own horse.

 

“At what cost?” he asked, though one eye continued to watch the field, and where as the skirmishers raged in the woods and hillsides, the bulk of his strength waited for the horns, hidden as they were in the scrublands to the north of the battle's early blows.

 

“Not a few,” the rider responded with a scowl. “They got three volleys off before we closed ranks, and 'twas not easy going uphill, but they broke first. Even took a few of the lords prisoner, such was our victory.”

 

Robb nodded. “Make sure Lord Umber knows of his son's performance and I shall be sure to honor them once the battle is over, but for now,” Robb's grin turned savage, and he looked up at the sky where the sun continued to rise, slowly burning way the fog, “now mayhap we seize this day. Lord Karstark, sound the horns!”

 

Two dozen horns bellowed out, as Robb made his way forward to lead from the front, and before the deep and haunting strain had finished washing over the field, the men were moving forward at a great speed – the vast army of foot of Cerwyns and Dustins and Karstarks and Boltons and Flints and Starks and Hornwoods and Whitehills, while he prayed to the Gods that though there were no Heart trees that they might watch the battle themselves, that they nonetheless knew the North shed blood today and so might sing stoutness into the hearts of every man. And, mayhap, that the horse of Manderly and Ryswell were more or less where they ought be. Then there were no worries nor doubts not mayhaps to be had, as Robb charged forward with his guard, slashing down on the main body of western men. –

 

– There was naught time for thought, only for action. Whether 'twas fate or his own folly that had led to this day, Jamie Lannister for the nonce cared not. Again, with iron discipline, his horseman pulled to a stop. Again, under threat of losing their own heads to himself or to the enemy should they stray, they reformed ranks and cantered back to where they had begun. And again, hearts tired and arms heavy from holding steel, they faced the woods once more, prepared to charge for the uncountable time should the enemy light cavalry come at his foot once more.

 

It was grueling, inglorious work, but any hopes of a quick and glorious victory had vanished with the fog, as their situation became clear. The Stark boy had played him well, damn him, and now he had naught to do but hold off the northern horse until his main body to the west could regroup from the unexpected assault, and hold so that the enemy could not envelope his flanks and pin him against the river like a wounded doe.

 

So far, his men were earning their coin... or saving their own scalps. There was a humiliation in being bested by the northern boy who had not fought outside the tiltyard till this morning, though _how_ he had he did not yet understand, but better to deal with his lord father after the fact when he returned his army to Riverrun than be feasted upon by uncaring crows.

 

No more time for it – again his own foot reformed into the line, pushing towards the woods where the northern horse and skirmishers did lurk. Again, the northern horse sought to check them. Again he shouted the order for his own to meet them, the walk becoming a trot before they galloped at the foe once more, screams tearing from their lips and sweat falling from their brows. Again, the western foot held firm as the northern horse harried its flanks, seeking passage beyond the line of pikes to the men within. Men fell on both sides, by ones and twos, until the western horse threatened to hit like a hammer, whereby the northern horse fled back to their own defenses, the yellow bastards! Again, he stopped the horses, letting man and beast alike take a moment to breathe rank air, before turning around and preparing to do the same drill yet again, and praying to the Warrior that the northern men would break before his own –

 

– Theon could not have been content with his lot had his own father been here to witness this. He had been at sea for naught but a few weeks when the galley had docked at White Harbor, word waiting the moment he stepped onto dry land that he was to return to Winterfell. He had been annoyed at first, thinking Robb feared he would flee given the chance, as if he had not earned his trust, but then it had been explained that Lord Stark was missing and that Robb was sending his banners south, the horns screaming for war. And he had in truth – though he would certainly admit it not! – been touched that Robb had declared against the Maester's advice and that he would have Theon by his side, as his brother. And – he had grinned a bit at this, and more than once when he reflected upon it – Jon Snow had not yet arrived, off playing as a wolf engaged in some foolishness on the wrong side of the wall. 'Twas Theon who had come first!

 

And now Robb had entrusted him with a contingent of arrows of his own, and they fought a bloody, bitter battle with the western men, who sought to prevent Robb's horse from closing the trap he had managed to assemble on the quick. Though the sun was now past its zennith and the morning's fog was all but gone, he could not see the battle for the terrain was rough and so his eyes were fully focused on his own small part.

 

He had not expected battle to be like this; the stories he remembered from his own kin were of quick, coastal raids that were savage in their brutality but quick in their rendering; either the Ironborn were thrown to sea or the town they prayed upon was sacked with not a man surviving the onslaught – there was no back-and-forth, no battle of wits and strength of wills as to who could hold out the longest while taking one hundred tiny strokes towards destruction. This was the war of the Greenlanders, and even Ser Cassel's stories to him and Robb and Jon did not tell the whole truth of it.

 

But even so, his father would not one day begrudge him that! Had he not paid the iron price today to restock his quiver, or the golden ring now in his pocket, the finger of some dead westerner still attached? Had he not spilt Greenlander blood and showed that the Ironborn were as stout a man in battle as any from the mainland? Even the cheese that he had found but a second in which to eat had come from the enemy dead.

 

Quiver. Notch. Fire. Quiver. Notch. Fire. For seconds that felt like days and minutes that felt like hours, so did the stream of time bend so oddly under the fog of war.

 

And then, chaos. No longer the solid order of men and horse, but a melee, as one line broke and bled into the other, though who had beaten who he could not have said, so was the noise and confusion of the moment. All around him, men with pikes and swords and bows dispersed despite the shouts of their commanders, some falling back while others drunk with bloodlust charged the enemy.

 

But there! And for a moment, he gaped. One of the western horseman had jumped as his horse went down in a flurry of arrows, and his helm had come loose – though by the fall or by the rider's choice he did not know. But there was no mistaking the knight as any other than he had glimpsed at Winterfell, none other than Jamie Lannister, the Kingslayer himself.

 

Theon aimed, willing his hands to remain steady as he prepared to take his shot. And the Kingslayer stumbled, a jolt and the shot went wide by a hair.

 

And now turned towards where the arrow had come. Turned towards Theon. Turned towards the Ironborn who would slit his throat and so make a name for himself that would be sung by every maiden with legs to spread from Sunspear to Last Hearth! And Pyke and Lordsport and Lonely Light for good measure!

 

Theon charged, and he was pleased when he saw a glimmer of recognition in the Kingslayer's eyes.

 

“So, Robb sends his prisoners to do his dirty work,” the Kingslayer smirked, sword at the ready, slashing with impossible speed.

 

“He fights alongside his brothers,” Theon snarled in response, his bow abandoned for his short sword as he parried the blow. Just.

 

Another lesson was learned then, that stories of Knightly duels that last for hours on end, filling the air with a song of steel, had no place on the true field of battle. He wondered, why through all the din, he should recognize Harrion Karstark's voice, calling his name without even attempting to hide his fear, as if he were a woman who was about to lay with a man for the first time.

 

Especially, Theon thought triumphantly, as he himself had drawn first blood –

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would be amazed by how often medieval armies and beyond could more or less crash into one another without a clue the other was there, or pass within miles and never know. 
> 
> For the pedantic reader out there, “cousin” is used here as a general term for “roughly same-aged person that I share kinship with, through some line or other.”


	11. An Ambition Overreached (Stannis Baratheon & Margaery Tyrell)

**Chapter 11**

 

**Stannis Baratheon**

 

Something had gone terrible wrong, and he suspected with little doubt that Lord Baelish had his grimy hands in the thick of it, as he was wont to do with every rotten thing that occurred around King's Landing.

 

Certainly, Tywin Lannister was involved as well, for though the two were oft at odds they had found common cause in making his own life a misery, and no doubt they had done the same unto Ned Stark. Now news came that Baelish had been accused of being involved in Lord Starks disappearance – mayhap the unholy coalition had begun to splinter. Of course – and he was furious at such lies spreading around the Kingdom – his enemies were quick to paint his own self as a suspect as well.

 

But for now, it mattered not, Stannis muttered to himself though clenched teeth, pacing in the rooms that had been set aside for his use by Lord Swann within the highest tower of Stonehelm castle, a spacious suite overlooking the mouth of the Slayne where it emptied into the Sea of Dorne, the village that took the castle's name sprawling along the other bank.

 

Though he were an honored guest – it smarted, knowing both Dragonstone and Storm's End were closed to him for the nonce. The former through the usurpation of his wife and her witch, the latter because for all his right's that supposedly were held in the eyes of the Seven (it was to jape!), 'twas his younger brother's seat and he would not give his foes even the suggestion that he sought to undermine him.

 

But Renly was absent – whether trapped within the chaos of King's Landing or escaped to who only knew where – and so it befell unto Stannis to raise the Stormlands in support of the King.

 

And yet, he could not, not in full.

 

Curse every single lord who feared Tywin Lannister or his slattern of a daughter! Or cowered before the threat of the Reach mustering its own colors in response!

 

Oh, the March Lords had responded quick enough, but they were martial men by nature, men who had been raised to know that hesitation and weakness would only mean yielding their keeps and lands and eldest daughters to men loyal to the Tyrells or Martells, men who had learned that harsh lesson not even a generation before, when all had fallen before that force until stopped dead at Storms End by Stannis himself until the war's end, though he had subsisted on rats and boot leather and then onions to do it. The March Lords knew of Stannis and respected him for his ability even if they did not follow him in love like they had Robert, knew that he did naught but his duty with no thought of his own reward. And for that many of the houses of the Rainwood and answered his summons as well.

 

But, he realized in truth, 'twas not near enough. The Owl of Metryns, the Maelstrom of Wylde, the Nightingales of Caron nor the Swan of Stonehelm – in sum he had mayhap a third of the forces of the Stormlands willing to follow him were to march on the morrow; Lord Tarth had given vague promises but not a single man-at-arms or even lordly cousin bringing oaths of allegiance; even Lord Buckler who had played host to his own self but a moon ago did not reply to his ravens now. From Felwood or Haystack Hall, nor the scores of smaller keeps that bordered the Crownlands – nary a word.

 

From Storm's End itself – silence fit for a tomb.

 

And so, here he was, stuck in a beautiful and spacious room with more promises than swords, and a half-penned letter denouncing the Queen's get as Joffrey Hill, a bastard – that could not be sent as long as his brothers and Ned Stark were unaccounted for.

 

A knock on the door.

 

“Yes?” He called out, not looking up from the letter than vexed him so.

 

“Father, it's me,”

 

Some of his anger dissipated at that. “Come in, Shireen”

 

His daughter entered the room, only opening the door as wide as needed for her to squeeze through, and – oh his sweet daughter – she curtseyed _._

 

“There is no need for that,” he said, though emotion at seeing her so well smoothed the gruffness in his voice. “How goes your day?”

 

“Very well!” Shireen said with with a smile. “Steffon and Gerold and Jeyne have been very kind. I thought that after lessons today, we might go out into the courtyard to play! Can we?”

 

His heart almost broke at her excessive happiness that a castilian's children should include her – curse her mother for being so cold to his own daughter... and mayhap a curse upon himself, for tolerating such as far as he did.

 

“You may,” he replied, keeping his dark thoughts unto himself. “Though be sure to listen to the Maester during lessons, first and foremost.”

 

“He's hard to understand, in his explanations,” Shireen said gloomily. “I miss Maester Cressen. And Patches.”

 

Another thing that his wife and the witch would one day pay for.

 

“Nonetheless, he is a Maester and for the nonce you are his pupil. You will do your best-”

 

He paused for a moment, in reflection of his own shortfalls thus far in fatherhood, and then continued, “but mayhap if you are still bewildered, then come to me, and I shall seek to help you understand more clearly. 'Twas not so long ago I myself sat at a maester's knees.”

 

The smile she gave him was n'er bright enough to eclipse the greyscale that marred her face.

 

“Before I forget,” she chirped, the angst of difficult lessons now brushed aside, as children were wont to do, jumping from one topic to another. “Lord Swann asked me to deliver this to you,” she handed over a rolled up parchment, clearly coming from a raven.

 

He opened it, and now for the second time in as many moments he had a reason to smile, though more in anticipation than in joy.

 

“Ser Davos has made port at Greenstone,” he said, eyes still scanning the letter. “He has escaped from King's Landing with the households of many that were left in the city,” he frowned then, “though he makes no mention of the Stark children, nor Lord Stark himself.”

 

Shireen knew little of the Starks and so the import of their absence did not faze her. “I will be glad to see Ser Davos,” she said gayly. “It was good fun, sailing here. I like this place more than Dragonstone.”

 

Stannis felt his teeth grind at that. “We will be here for some time,” he said with thought. “And if – when – we return to Dragonstone, it will be very different, I promise you. We will never deal with such a place again, I promise you that.”

 

Shireen nodded, and her eyes told him she understood he meant more than just the castle itself.

 

“Now then,” Stannis continued. “You ought get ready for your lessons, and I must prepare for Ser Davos's arrival – 'tis not far from Greenstone and the letter is now out of date, as is their nature. If we are lucky he will be with us in a day or two.”

 

Shireen nodded and stood up, brushing down her dress before all but skipping out the room. She would never want so desperately for companionship ever again, he swore to himself.

 

“On my life I'd stake it on the Lannisters,” Ser Davos said in the privacy of Stannis's suite, three days hence. “I can't prove it, mind – there was no time of course, and it's not as if Lord Tywin isn't a tricky devil. But... smells wrong, my Lord. Lord Baelish disappeared too quick and clean, and the Lannisters pinned the blame too quick. I've seen the sort before.”

 

Stannis nodded, thinking quickly as he took in what his man had said. “Not a plot then, you are sure? They were as thick as thieves towards myself.”

 

“Aye – but they were not friends then, my Lord, but working towards a similar goal. It's like... like smugglers who are at odds, but neither wants to see the customs officer find the other's supply, lest the port become closed to them both.”

 

Stannis grunted at that, grudgingly conceding the point... for now.

 

“So the Lannisters have Stark, so you say,” he said instead. “Arrested? Killed? Same for Baelish?”

 

Davos shrugged helplessly. “I couldn't say. He never came back from Bronzegate, that I am certain. But for the King to fall into deepsleep, from his cups – no less! On near enough the same day? And for the Lannisters to be so bold as to confine the Stark household to their rooms?”

 

“Aye,” Davos finished with a sigh. “'Tis a bloody coup. Naught else.”

 

“And my brother the King is caught... what? In a drunken stupor as his Kingdom goes to the hells? Or poisoned, more like. And what of Renly? If I am to march now, do I condemn the King to death? My younger brother? And who in truth do I march _against?!_ ”

 

Ser Davos Seaworth said naught to that, face stoic.

 

“We are well snared,” Stannis continued softly. “And we must escape this trap or perish.” He gestured for Davos to follow, leading his way to a roughly drawn map of southern Westeros, centered on Storm's End and showing the realm as far north as Harrenhal, as far south and west as to include all the approaches that Dorne or the Reach might take against the March lords.

 

“I will take the Army of the Marches and the Rainwood,” - he had chosen the name explicitly so as to avoid the suggestion that he himself were leading _The Stormlands_ , as was not his rightful place, however necessary it may have been.

 

With a finger, he drew a line northward up the Slayne from Stonehelm, to where the highlands began that marked the boundary between the Rainwood and the Marches and the Stormlands proper. “We will march and make camp at Lord Bolling's demesne, at Slaynegate.”

 

His face puckered sourly as he looked at the rest of the map. “The fleet is mine, for the most,” he told Ser Davos, who nodded for he knew this to be true. “But I have no suitable anchorage for it. King's Landing is obviously hostile, and Gulltown is closed to all but the Vale. White Harbor mayhap in theory, but far too remote to be of any use.” He scowled, “and the less said of Dragonstone, the better.”

 

Davos frowned in thought. “You were wise, my Lord, to send ships by ones and twos to loyal ports, and lucky that Lord Stark did not summon the fleet back home... but this is untenable.”

 

“I know,” Stannis growled, though his ire was focused on the map that mocked him so. “A third of the fleet – that in most in need of refit and repair, and crewed by the least competent sailors in the King's employ – is left behind in Lannister hands, but the longer we tarry the more a threat it will nonetheless become. His eyes moved across the table, looking past where the map ended. “And of course, there is Lord Tywin's own fleet at Lannisport, and the jumped up sellsails of the Reach, who could blow any which way if the find the wind fair.”

 

“Aye,” Davos replied, for there was naught else to say.

 

“I would concentrate at Tarth, but House Tarth is proving as firm a weather vane as the Redwynes,” he sneered.

 

“If I may, my Lord – concentrate on the ports we control for certain. It will be harsh on the harbor masters and will play havoc on the crews, and mayhap the ships themselves... but better to have uncomfortable berths than to be caught and destroyed piecemeal as we risk now.”

 

Stannis heard, but his eyes did not leave the map. “It means surrendering Blackwater Bay, he said slowly. “But I think you have the right of it. I will send word for the northerly crews to sail south, and to attach themselves to stations from Greenstone to Stonehelm.” A pause.

 

“Though I would keep the force at Tarth intact – let us make sure that our friend understands that if he will not do his duty without question, we carry sticks as well as carrots.”

 

And so what host he had been able to muster was on the move, trickling into an oft rain-wet and muddy camp at the headwaters of the Slayne. Ships began to sail and even more happily, the ravens from the Houses of the Narrow Sea began to fly, sending word to their distant liege that they stood by their oaths unto him, but that they could sail no men for they were frantic preparing for the coming siege, as Lord Tywin mustered the Crownlands in his daughters name, acting as regent as she was.

 

He had accepted that, for the nonce – recognizing that there was naught he could do about the north anyhow until the Stormlands were well in hand. He had replied, with somber words that he expected every man to do his duty, and that what fleet remained should ensure that Dragonstone were placed under blockade and merchant shipping into Blackwater Bay reduced only to those trading with Houses loyal to himself, the rest of the cargoes to be seized and used to aid the defense.

 

His mood improved with every passing day, now that he could act. His position had been tenuous at first, but Stannis could wield great power in the east, though it was spread wide and unfocused. Yet while the Lannisters had sowed confusion across the realm and so bought themselves time to strike first, now every day that passed without committed action worked in Stannis's favor, allowing him to concentrate his force, to dig in his men and train green boys, to coordinate with his distant banners... he dared allow optimism to march against his initial fears.

 

“My Lord Baratheon of Dragonstone” - he had insisted upon the distinction, though it grated upon his every nerve. The courier continued to scream. “A message for you my Lord. Good tidings! Your brother has been found, free, and riding fast to Storm's End!

 

Stannis snatched the letter, barely remembering to thank the man before opening it with haste.

 

“He has passed Bronzegate,” Stannis read, relief evident in his voice. He frowned. “From – the Grassy Vale?” He read on, in silence now. Renly had fled shortly after the Lannister coup, escorted by a contingent of Reachmen, led by his own squire, Loras Tyrell. Northward, at first, intending to take a ship from Maidenpool but forced to turn westward as war broke out in truth and Lannister and Tully men clashed. He had the snuck south back through the Crownlands and into the Reach, not daring to send a raven lest he be intercepted. And from there, after some days, through the Kingswood. He ended with a hint that he would have more to say to all the Stormlords upon his arrival at his home seat.

 

Stannis felt a pang at that, _his brother's_ home seat, not his own, and still he wondered about his elder brother who remained in King's landing, with more stirring of brotherly affection than he had felt in some time, though to be true it did not eclipse the concern he felt for his brother's station rather than his blood relation.

 

But this – this was in its own right excellent news, even if not perfect in every aspect. He could tarry no longer then – the ravens must fly across the Seven Kingdoms, to every keep and castle and market town, from the highest Lords in Winterfell and Sunspear and Riverrun and Highgarden and the Eyrie to the meanest knight with naught but a drum tower and an acre of scrub. Even in the Iron Islands – for that matter, even the Westerlands they would know the truth; for the King was threatened and the Lannisters sought to put a golden-haired bastard on the Iron Throne.

 

And, he let out a breath at the thought – a crisis had been averted. For all the humming and hawings of Evenfall Hall, of Bronzegate, of Haystack Hall and Griffin's Roost – the Stormlands would march united for their imprisoned King.

 

And – though it soured him to admit it – if war with the Lannisters were at hand, mayhap, _mayhap_ , his brother's... friendship, if that were the right word, with the Tyrells and the Reachman would be of use. To be treated like a tamed but dangerous animal, for certain, but there were worse considerations than Lannister and Tyrell slaughtering one another man for man.

 

Four days later, almost – _almost_ – openly eager, he received a letter from Storm's End.

 

He dropped it into the mud, grateful that none but Ser Davos were here to see his shock and fury in his tent.

 

“the King is dead,” he ground out – fists and teeth and eyes clenching as he said so. “And Renly, _that utter fool_ , has proclaimed himself new King of Westeros.”

* * *

 

 

 

**Margaery Tyrell**

 

“We will do no such thing!” her grandmother – the formidable Olenna Tyrell known across the Kingoms as the Queen of Thorns – scolded her lord father as if he were naught but an errant boy, similar to when Loras or Garlan had been caught sneaking into the kitchens for an extra fruit tart.

 

“Mother, you won't speak to me that way,” her father huffed, his face going to purple as he sat down nonetheless and appeared to deflate under grandmother's glare. He gestured weakly towards her own self, and Margaery did her best to look demure and doe-eyed, as she had been taught.

 

“But think of it! Margaery a queen. Let us declare for Renly and we will be the most powerful family in all of Westeros!”

 

“Or the most foolish,” Lady Olenna scoffed with a _tut_. “There are now, what – four of the realms at war, and any that gained the Reach host would be but assured to win... and you would have us link to the only host with the lack of wits to lose it nonetheless!”

 

“You can't mean to declare for Stannis,” her father replied, aghast at the very thought. Her heart went out for him, he was a sweet man and a doting father, but grandmother played him like he were but a harp. “I _won't_ do that, mother. I will not!”

 

“Oh settle down,” grandmother chided. “We're out of wine – good wine at any rate. Go, fetch me another glass,” this she ordered of Margaery's mother, Alerie Tyrell née Hightower, who said naught about being treated like a common serving girl. “Yes, mother,” she only said, leaving the solar in haste.

 

“I would be thrilled to see our little rose raised so high,” grandmother continued, giving Margaery what passed for a tender look and a gentle pat on the hand, “but let us not fool ourselves – 'tis not Margaery that has Renly Baratheon so enamored.”

 

“- do not interrupt me,” she said before Lord Mace could so much as draw breath to refute. “In truth if it were up to me, I would give your son a castle of his very own to rival Harrenhal with a thousand stable boys,” grandmother continued with a croon of glee.

 

“To see the Baratheons plunge themselves into civil war while the knives close in around them, honestly I never expected to live to see such a day!”

 

“No. Your son was presumptuous – Renly must have buggered out whatever sense once lay within Loras for Loras to promise him the swords of the reach, and Loras must have done the same to Renly for Renly to even consider it, let alone claim the Iron Throne on the strength of such words!”

 

“Grandmother,” Margeary piped up, so as to spare her father another humiliation. “If we are not to declare for either of the Baratheons, then for whom? Lord Lannister? Lord Tully? Lord Stark?” Margaery shuddered delicately as she said those names, as if the thought of marriage for the sake of something so mercenary as a martial alliance were something she preferred not allow to sit upon her tongue or interrupt her gentle thoughts.

 

Grandmother just as clearly did not buy it for a moment, though she smiled upon her as her eyes rolled with exaggerated exasperation. “Of course not! Don't emulate your father, silly girl.” Margaery bowed her head at that, though she heard the lack of steel in her grandmother's tone.

 

“No we shall stay out of this mess for the time being. Let others come to Highgarden, if they wish to have our banners. To bleed Redwynes and Hightowers and Tyrells... or even Florents, because of a scrap of parchment sworn by two men who not long ago fought against us – ha! And 'tis not as if the Lannisters are any better.”

 

“No, indeed,” grandmother finished, voice smug and thick with glee. “Let them cut each other down while we grow stronger still!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Stannis can lay it on a bit thick when thinking about how he only does things for duty and never expects anything in return.
> 
> Loyalty to Stannis is centered on those houses who have more to fear from Dornish or Reach ambitions, and are thus willing to go with Stannis because he is a proven commander and worried that Renly is a puppet of the Reach. He is more accepted than canon, but he's not particularly loved.
> 
> Renly did not go to Highgarden for a reason. Namely, in canon, he is usurping his brother's claim to Kingship... who is confined to Dragonstone and alienating himself from Westeros by accepting Melisandre. Renly can afford a big coronation in The Reach. Here, his brother is not only gathering some support, but doing so in the Stormlands. Renly cannot afford to declare himself King at Highgarden in these circumstances. Instead, a bit of a rush job, some hasty promises, and then to his seat to take control of Lords.
> 
> Which means that Highgarden isn't privy to the discussion. Oops.


End file.
